These Scars I Carry
by Poke-em-with-the-pointy-end
Summary: Not all scars are visible. Not all wounds are physical. Sometimes the war isn't the only fight — sometimes the real battle is coming back home.
1. Homecoming

**These Scars I Carry  
Chapter 1  
"Homecoming"**

* * *

As the escalator descends, my jet-lagged eyes scan the concourse below. To my surprise, at the end of the way I see a small collection of kids from a high school marching band playing the _Marines' Hymn_ and beside them, a couple of old guys— their dress blues straining at their waists— acting as an unofficial color guard.

 _Jesus Christ. Please don't tell me my mom hired a band._

Mom's arms are stretched high, holding up a large sign painted in bright, glittering colors that says: _WELCOME HOME LINCOLN!_

Tightly tied around her wrists are strings attached to a metric shit-ton of balloons— all colored red, white, and blue— which flutter and bounce in accordance as she hops up and down in excitement. A huge smile splits her face from ear to ear and I have to suppress an urge to groan in embarrassment. It's not like I can just pretend this welcome wagon is for anybody else— I was the only Marine on board the flight.

The paper sign crackles and crumbles between us as Mom rushes forward to tackle me into a hug. I stand there stupidly for a moment before my dumbstruck brain reminds my arms that I'm supposed to hug her back. Her arms are flung around my neck, standing up on her tiptoes to reach. The balloons drift low, softly bouncing off the top of my head as her quiet sobs reach my ears and I can't help but feel like shit.

This is a year and a half's worth of hugs she's giving me, and it suddenly dawns on me that I haven't called or written her nearly as much as I should have done. The guilt eats away at me in this one single crushing embrace. I get the feeling that— if it were up to her— she'd never let me go again.

"Thank God you're home," she whispers into my chest and I feel my throat tighten. Her voice cracks with her shedding tears, "thank God you're alive."

I feel the guilt weighing heavily over my shoulders again. Partially because of all this stress I've caused her, partially because I don't really know what to say. But mostly just because I'm alive.

"I'm-" The lie catches in my throat and I have to start again. "I'm glad to be home Mom."

We stand there awkwardly for what feels like forever. Strangers come and go, too many of them stopping to give a _thank you for your service_ and _welcome home._ And it pushes the awkward levels to over a hundred. I'm entirely uncomfortable here— vulnerable. Many of them give me quick a pat on the back as they go, and I can't help but flinch every time they do.

Common sense tells me not to worry. That the people in this airport are just normal, everyday civilians just going about their lives in peace. That the endless sea of tourists wearing Michigan State football hats and colorful clothing mean no ill will towards me. They're just regular people.

But I've spent the last seven months living in a country that's still an active war zone. Where the bad guys will blend in with the civilian population. Where the friendly guy at the bazaar who was smiling and waving at you one day, will be the same guy shooting an AK at you the next. You're never sure just who to trust and I feel completely naked here. My fingers twitch.

I hate the fact that I don't have my rifle with me.

"I need to grab my bag," I mutter and I'm relieved when my mom lets go. She spends a few anxious moments thanking the color guard and hugging some of the band kids. And then we're off, heading towards the escalator to the baggage claim.

"I think you've gotten taller." She says, looping her arm around mine as she gazes up at me up with a motherly smile. I return a halfhearted one towards her, but say nothing in return.

"How was your flight? Are you hungry? Because we can stop for lunch somewhere here, or on the way back home. Wherever you want to go. It's up to you honey." There's no pause in the conversation. No flow. She talks fast and too much, desperately trying to fill the void of silence between us.

Someone brushes my shoulder by accident and my heart skips a beat. My trigger finger twitches yet again.

"I'm not hungry mom. Don't worry." That's a flat out lie. I'm starving actually, but I don't want to spend anymore time than I have to in this airport. I need to escape these crowds.

A soft, metallic sounding female voice sounds off over the intercom above— telling us new arrivals the local time and date so they can reset themselves. My watch is still set to Afghanistan time, even though I've been stateside for a few weeks now. Never been bothered to change it I guess.

"Your father is making shepherd's pie for dinner tonight," Mom says cheerfully. "It used to be your favorite, remember?"

Anger blazes to life within my chest and I want to snap at her. Shepherd's pie is _still_ my favorite of Dad's dishes. I haven't fucking forgotten.

The urge to snap at her fades instantly though, and I feel like the world's biggest dick. Mom is just being mom, her intentions are good and I'm being disrespectful.

 _Get a hold of yourself Loud._

"I remember. Sounds great mom." I offer her a guilty smile, one that doesn't quite meet my eyes but she thankfully doesn't notice.

"Your father wanted to be here, but Lola had an audition today that she couldn't miss." Mom continues on in a tone that makes her sound like she recited this apology a thousand times in the mirror already. "And it's almost finals week, so the rest of the girls couldn't risk missing school. Lynn had to coach, and Luan has classes and a show tonight, and with Luna on tour-"

"Mom, it's fine." She's rambling, and I have to cut her off. "Everyone's busy living their lives. It's _fine,_ I'll see them all tonight." She looks at me guiltily, like she's about to cry so I offer her a genuine smile this time.

No seriously, it really is fine. Growing up in a house with ten sisters, you get used to the idea that someone will _always_ have something else going on. You can only play the balancing act for so long, and I'm not selfish enough to expect my sisters to put their lives on hold at the drop of a dime just to see their brother a few hours early. I haven't seen any of them for over a year, so waiting just a little bit longer isn't going to matter much. It's better this way. Especially since they would be expecting the brother they remembered warmly, the one they grew up with— the brother that many of them helped raised, who then in turn help to raise the others— the brother they loved.

Not me. Not the stranger that returned in his stead.

Mom starts talking again, filling the silence with her upbeat voice, bringing me up to speed on everything I've missed for the past year and a half: Leni's moved out - working as a fashion designer out in California, _studying business, of all things!_ Luna is on the road— an opening act for the band Motley Crowe— living the rock star dream. Luan goes to community college in Royal Woods and works weekly gigs at the Laugh Factory comedy club.

Not all their dreams can come true though. Lynn was an unfortunate case— having dropped out of college due to a serious leg injury which cost her her scholarship. She was working as a little league baseball coach for the time being, teaching the ways of the trade to the next upcoming generation of Lynn Louds.

Lucy was still in high school, same as Lana and Lola whom had just started off their Freshman year. Lucy was still stuck in her creepy goth-phase, _though I doubt I can really call it just a 'phase' at this point._ Lana was off doing extreme sports and Lola was starting to get into legitimate child acting.

Lisa was still a genius, but what else was new? Having an early, early, _early_ graduation from school— she was now teaching and lecturing out at Luan's college. _"Professor Pip-Squeak"_ mom says the student body calls her.

The biggest shock came when she spoke about Lily. Lily was eight now— or maybe nine? Fuck. I don't even remember. Whatever. Lily had grown and grown _tall._ She apparently towered over all the boys and girls in her elementary - even the older kids in other grades. Lynn apparently was trying to convince her to take up basketball, seeing her height advantage as a golden ticket to stardom. Lisa wasn't interested though— mom said all she wanted to do was stay indoors and play video games and read comic books.

It was like a punch to the chest. Life slapping me across the face in a surprising turn of events. Lily had grown to be just like me. Or I guess how I used to be.

It was a lot to take in, too much really. Overwhelming. I had just landed and already the 'real world' was shoving itself and all its changes down my throat. I felt like a glass of water— filled to the brim with all the crap that life had thrown at me for the past year and now I have to face everything back home— but the cup is full and the changes start pouring in and the glass overflows.

I'm a stranger here. _Here._ In the place I grew up. I mean, _Christ_ , do you _know_ how screwed up that sounds? I didn't even _want_ to come back to Royal Woods... but I didn't have anywhere else to go.

I'd rather be with my friends. I want to be with the people who know me best.

I want to go home.

As soon as the thought crystallizes in my head, I feel bad again. Especially with my mom standing beside me at the baggage carousel, wearing the biggest smile in the history of smiles and rattling on about how happy she is I made it home right before the school year ends. How I'll be able to spend the first few weeks of summer with the family.

 _Hold it together Lincoln. You'll only be home for four weeks. That's just thirty days. Hold it together._

"Lori already visited you, didn't she?" Mom asks and I blink once before remembering to answer.

"Oh yeah. First week I was back, she and Bobby came up to visit."

"That's so sweet," Mom sniffles and wipes at her now damp eyes. "Florida is so far away. I still can't believe my babygirl is all grown up, and with her own little Santiago on the way too."

There we go, just another reminder.

Mr and Mrs Santiago. _Lori Santiago._ Something else I have to check off on my great, big list of _'Shit-I-Missed-While-I-Was-Gone.'_ To be fair though, it wasn't like I wasn't already aware. Lori and Bobby had gotten hitched well before I left for Afghan, though their marriage ceremony happened a few months into my deployment.

Before I had even graduated high school, Lori and Bobby moved to Florida together. Lori for school, Bobby because he had finally gotten his, how he so eloquently put it— _"big break"_ for a future career. Something involving being an aviation mechanic. How he landed that job, I'll never rightly know, but the two were happy and from what I understood, well off enough to live in Florida.

With the exception of the occasional letter or postcard, I hadn't seen nor heard from Lori or Bobby in over a year. Then, within a week of being back home at Camp Lejeune, the two surprised me with a visit.

"Welcome back twerp," Lori said tearfully as she embraced me into a hug, which at the time, made me anxious for some reason. She was still using that stupid nickname from so long ago, and I was smiling in response.

"I think I'm too tall to still be getting called 'twerp' dude." I had said to her, giving her a kiss on the head as I returned the hug halfheartedly. I remember she smelled like fresh oranges and the ocean breeze. What I expect Florida to smell like, I suppose. Bobby stood to the side of her, looking a bit awkward but also with a wide smile on his face.

"You'll always just be twerp to me Lincoln." Lori shook her head, sniffling as she took a step back from the embrace. A hand raised to wipe at her eyes, and the bright North Carolina sun above reflected off a pretty diamond that sat upon her finger.

We spent the weekend catching up. I gave them a small tour of my base— Camp Lejeune— and of the greater Jacksonville area. I also remembered to give the two my belated congratulations and apologized for missing their big day. Bobby took it in stride but Lori? Lori just started bawling with ugly crocodile tears, and I just felt like even more of an asshole.

She swore they were happy tears. That she understood and that she was just so _proud_ of me and happy I was home. She said I would make it up to her by being here for her _next_ big day.

Then, she dropped the ball— Lori, my eldest sister Lori, the one who bullied but also looked after me when I was a kid— was four weeks pregnant. She and Bobby were going to have a baby. Mom and Dad were going to be grandparents. My sisters were going to be aunties. _I_ was going to be an _uncle._

And I didn't have the heart to tell her that nine months from now, I would probably be back in Afghanistan.

Fuck.

"You're all growing up so fast," Mom says, drawing me back to the present. "And I still can't believe how much you've changed!" I've went through the usual growth spurt when I was in high school, but I've grown another two inches at the very least in the past year. My long, straggly white hair is gone as well— replaced by cleanly faded sides and a neat, short cropped top.

"You look so handsome." Mom says, hugging my arm tightly and I feel the need to escape this conversation.

I try to ignore the awkwardness, so I look around the room at the hugging families and businessmen with laptop bags slung over their shoulders. Beyond a cluster of people waiting for their luggage, I see a dark-haired, dark-skinned guy wearing desert camouflage leaning against a support column. His eyes are large, magnified behind the thick military-issued glasses he wears.

I watch his hands as they travel down to his pockets to retrieve a blood soaked roll of medical gauze from their depths. His other hand does more or less the same— this time coming up with a ripped and flayed tourniquet. The guy inspects the medical devices for only a second, before his eyes shoot back up and suddenly we're making eye contact.

My heart rate skyrockets. I feel like my blood is boiling. I know him.

"Lincoln?" Mom touches my shoulder and I'm shocked out of my trance.

I blink once and the guy is gone.

"Honey, are you alright?" Mom asks again, confusion on her features. "You spaced out there."

"M'fine," I manage to choke out, eyes still glancing around the baggage claim. Searching for the guy I saw.

Instead, the black-flapped opening spits out my seabag onto the conveyor and I'm relieved to walk away from this conversation. I grab the bag with one hand and hoist it onto my shoulder, sending little puffs of dust into the air around me. Afghanistan has followed me home.

"Welcome home Devil Dog," an older gentleman says to me. He walks with a limp but still carries himself strong, like he were still in his prime. His sleeve is pushed up, displaying the Marine Corps EGA— eagle, globe, and anchor— tattooed on his upper arm. Showing me he belongs to the brotherhood. "Semper Fi."

"Always Faithful sir." I shake his hand and although the exchange feels awkward, I'll admit— I'm far more comfortable with this than I was with all the other useless _'Thank you for your service'_ praise other civilians had been spouting. At least this man here, he at least gets it. Gets me.

 _Once a Marine, always a Marine I guess._

"God bless you son." The old man says, pats my elbow and lets me go. When I return to my mom, she's got this proud smile on her face and her eyes are getting misty again.

Another crowd of people pass us, and I have to swallow once in order to choke down this uncomfortable feeling I get. "Can we go now?"

I need to get out of this airport.

"Of course honey," Mom says, oblivious to how anxious I am. We start making our way out of the concourse and Mom tries to fill up the silence with even more small talk. She chatters on endlessly— mostly about how the girls are doing in school and the gossip around her dental office. I don't care for gossip on who's dating who, or how bad this kid's teeth were, but letting her talk means I don't have to.

Then, the bombshell drops.

"The McBrides wanted to see you today." She says and I freeze, dead in my tracks. Mom stops and glances at me, perplexed.

"What?" My voice just manages to squeeze out. Mom nods in response.

"Howard couldn't get off work. And Harold is up-state for the day-" Her voice trails off in my mind, mostly because the only thing I can hear now is the whining white-noise screech that always follows an explosion. It drowns out the environment around me but if I focus, I can just faintly hear somebody screaming.

My stomach churns and my eyes go hot with tears that never seem to come. A cold sweat breaks out over my body and I start shaking. No no no. I can't do this now, I can't have an episode now, not _here._

"Lincoln honey," I see Mom's face and her features soften just as her voice does. "Is something wrong?" Her arm reaches for my chest, "You're shaking…"

"Bathroom," I mutter— dropping off my bag in the middle of the walkway in an explosion of dirt and dust. I bolt for the nearest restroom, just barely making it to the stall before I'm retching and puking up my stomach. I haven't eaten all day, so nothing comes up but bile and sickly yellow acid. My throat burns and tears are clouding my vision. Yet I can still just barely make out the familiar sounds of screaming in the back of my mind.

I don't know exactly how long I sat there, collapsed against the toilet of some airport in Michigan. My body is still weak and shaking when I finally find the strength to stand. Legs wobbly, eyes burning and nose dripping, I stand in the stall— holding on to the walls to keep from falling over— until the heaving stops. My mouth tastes sour and foul, my heart is beating too fast.

I stumble over to the sink and start splashing cold water onto my face when my Mom peeks her head through the men's room doors.

"Lincoln, are you okay?" She says and for a split second I hate her for seeing me this way— that she's _still_ so kind and motherly even though I'm a horrible son. Then split second passes, the anger fades and I feel horrible again. Guilty. It's not her fault my brain is scrambled like an egg.

And yet, her question lingers in the stale bathroom air. I'm sorry Mom. I'm really sorry but _no_ , I'm not okay. I'm a Goddamn mess right now.

I can't tell her that though.

"I'm fine Mom." The lie comes easy and I give her a reassuring smile that feels so _fake_ upon my features. "Must've been something I ate. I'll be out in a minute."

She buys the lie and as she exits, I splash more and more cold water on my face. _Focus Lincoln_ — _keep it together man. Just make it home and you can rest. Just make it home and you can sleep the pain away._ I finish with the sink and look up at the mirror.

Clyde McBride, my best friend in the whole damn world, is standing right behind me.

"Jesus Lincoln, you're a mess man." He laughs and I do nothing but stare numbly as he passes me lump of paper towels. I dry my face off and when the soaking towels pull away— like the curtains to one of Luan's shows— Clyde is still there grinning at me.

"Why are you here Clyde?" There's accusation in my voice and I can't help but feel stupid.

"What? I can't drop in to see my best friend?" Clyde is grinning, his eyes twinkling with mischief but there's something else there. Something hidden behind his wide lens frames— something sinister. "I just want to welcome you back home dude. You made it back _alive_."

There's pain in my chest, like I'm taking a knife to the gut. And once again my blood is boiling in my veins. "You shouldn't be here man." I say weakly, but Clyde does nothing more than laugh.

"Bullshit bro, this is my home too." His face suddenly darkens and I can see a thin line of blood drip from his nose, just like when we were kids. The nosebleed continues as the droplets fall and stain the uniform he's wearing red. "I want to see my Dads."

"We can't do that Clyde."

Clyde snarls at me, and suddenly I feel like a child— hiding from an abusive parent. "And why the _fuck not?!"_ He screams in my face and I have no idea how Mom doesn't hear him from outside the bathroom doors.

I shove him off and glare back at his bleeding face. "You know damn well why." Clyde glares back at me, his arms subconsciously fixing the creases in the uniform he's wearing— the desert pattern becoming more and more blood soaked as we talk.

"You promised me Lincoln. _We_ promised each other."

"I know, and I'm sorry— but I can't." I choke, the words catching in my throat before I swallow once and spit them back out. "And you can't either."

"Why not? You plan on stopping me?" His eyes are narrowed into slits behind his glasses, and I swear I can see third-degree burns appearing across his skin.

"No Clyde," my breathing is erratic and my chest hurts, but I can't look away as the skin rips and tears itself apart. "It's because-"

The words die in my throat as Clyde's blood soaks the bathroom tiles beneath us. _I can't say it, please don't make me say it._

"Because why Lincoln?" Clyde whispers, taking a step towards me and I shut my eyes tight to hide from his deteriorating form.

"Say it Lincoln. _Say it."_

I take a shaky breath. My mouth no longer tastes like bile, but instead tastes like copper. I can feel the heat of the sun bearing down on my back. I can smell smoke and gunpowder in the air around me. My back hurts— teeth are chattering, and there's a sticky sensation coating my hands. Sticky and metallic. Somewhere— I can hear screaming.

"Because Clyde," I drown out the noise and the sensations finally fade as I open my eyes. "Because you're-"

Clyde is gone. I take a shaky breath of relief and that fills me with shame… Shame, because I'm alone in this bathroom. Shame, because Clyde was never here. Clyde left with me for Afghanistan.

"-dead."

And he didn't make it back.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Okay now, there's no way in Hell I can make this story sound original. _'Lincoln enlists in the military'_ stories are a dime a dozen. They've been done to death. Full stop. I'm fairly certain the fandom is as sick and tired of them as they are with the 'No Such Luck' AU stories.**

 **So why would I try my hand at one of these? Well you see** —

 **I've lived this life before. I'm currently on my third tour in Afghanistan** — **and while this deployment is much _much_ more relaxed than the other two (I have internet for crying out loud!) it still doesn't change my experiences in my previous deployments.**

 **Military Lincoln fics usually follow the same concept: Lincoln joins *insert branch here*, goes to war, returns home and deals with his trauma and PTSD with the help from his family. Nothing wrong with that, the story basically writes itself.**

 **Here's the thing though, and no insult intended to any authors of such a fic, but most of these stories have the same underlying problem** — **the people writing these story _don't_ understand the military. They don't understand the soldier mentality. They don't understand what it feels like coming home from a deployment. And they don't understand battle-trauma based PTSD. ****I don't mean to judge and I'm not calling out any of my fellow authors, but this type of story is of a sensitive nature to me, and I want to see it done justice.**

 **Justice though, requires realism. And realism in regards to the military _(the Marine Corps especially)_ is not a very family-friendly place. Expect discomfort, expect violence, expect political-incorrectness, and definitely expect _harsh_ language.**

 **We swear in the military** — **_A lot._ Lincoln is going to be swearing**— _ **A lot.**_ **If you're okay with that, cool welcome aboard. If not, then I'm sorry. But thanks for at least reading the AN.**

 **Finally though, the story a few years in the future, ages of the Loud kids are as follows:**

 **Lori-26  
Leni-25  
Luna-23  
Luan-22  
Lynn-21  
Lincoln-19  
Lucy-16  
Lana-14  
Lola-14  
Lisa-12  
Lily-9**

 **Alright, AN done. I'm out, thanks for reading.**


	2. Changes

**These Scars I Carry  
Chapter 2  
"Changes"**

* * *

Vanzilla is still exactly the same as I remember it being— though that shouldn't be much of a surprise, considering just how old the damn thing is. My hands run along the worn leather of the front console, identifying every new scratch and tear that has marred the old car since I left.

The faint scent of fast food mixed with the overwhelming aroma of leaky engine fluids and exhaust brings back memories of all the countless hours I've spent in this car. From simple commutes to school, to family road trips— from our weekly trips to the movie theater, to the first time Dad taught me how to drive. The memories are soft and faint, but still manage to bring a small smile to my face.

Despite my offer, Mom is adamant on being the one to drive us back home. I think she believes that I've forgotten the way back, and the thought does nothing but piss me off royally. The rational side of me— what little of that remains— manages to convince the other half that she's just being motherly. She probably just wants me to relax after my long-ass flight, and I have to agree with my rational side.

The internal arguments in my head are unnerving. This is the _third time_ I've gotten pissed off for no good fucking reason, other than the fact that my Mother loves me. Marines aren't supposed to behave this way. _Normal functioning people_ aren't supposed to behave this way.

That thought pisses me off even more than the latter one, and I try to get my mind off it by focusing on the world outside Vanzilla's window. Unlike our family van, I notice the differences in the landscape of the city. New businesses that weren't there last year. Old businesses that are gone. It's like a whole chunk of time has just… disappeared.

Billboards have changed. The gas prices are ridiculous. The songs on the radio are different. The faces on the celebrity tabloids at the airport newsstand were people I didn't recognize. And people were using new lingo that I have never even heard of before.

For the real world, time didn't stop ticking onward just because I was out in the suck. I knew the Royal Woods I would come back to wouldn't be the same as the one I left— but I just didn't expect the changes to hit me this hard. Bother me this much. I had no idea what just one year can do to change a place. Change a home.

Stranger in a strange land, indeed.

A small victory is gained in the fact that the Loud family house looks exactly the same as it did when I left. Sports balls and frisbees litter the front lawn, a small fleet of bicycles remain tethered to the side of the house— I even spy that stupid fucking boomerang _still_ chilling on top of the house. I don't even know how or when that thing got to the roof. It's been up there as long as I remember.

Mom still has her ceramic frog set next to the front steps. She keeps a spare key hidden beneath in case myself or any of my sisters were to get locked out. I wonder if it's still there now?

My boot gently kicks over the lead frog and— to my surprising relief— I spy a small, worn key hidden underneath. Somethings never change I guess.

My mom leads me through the house, up to my bedroom, as if I don't remember the way. She opens the door and— like the rest of the house— it looks like it was frozen in time. Yellow paint? Check. Color-coordinated comforter? Check. Comic book superhero flyers taped randomly to the walls to disguise the decorator paint job? Check. Bun-Bun sitting off the corner of my bed? Check. Even the book on the bedside table is the same one I was reading before I left. The whole thing is… creepy.

"I left everything the way it was," she says proudly as I drop my bag on the floor. "So it would feel familiar. Like home."

I don't tell her it doesn't feel like home at all. I grab my knife from my duffel and hide it underneath my pillow.

"Why don't you rest?" Mom suggests. "Take a nap. I'll come get you when Dad and your sisters are home."

When she's gone, I dive onto the bed. It's the one thing I'm very happy about. The mattress is soft and the comforter is clean, luxuries I've lived without since I left for boot camp. I stretch out on my back, my boots hanging off the side edge of the bed, and close my eyes. Only I can't seem to get comfortable. I roll over onto my side and try again. Then my stomach. I pry off my boots with my toes. Nothing's working.

 _This bed is too soft._ I finally realize after a few minutes of struggle. So I grab my pillow and hit the floor, dragging the comforter with me.

I've slept on the top bunk of a squeaky metal rack in the squad bay at Parris Island, on a cot at Camp Leatherneck while we waited to start our mission, and in the dirt and sand of Helmand Province within our patrol base. I've learned to make misery my company.

Once before, back in February, the temperature dropped so low one night I had to share a sleeping bag with Clyde. We woke up the next morning with a thick sheet of frost coating the bag. All things considered, the ground feels familiar, the thick carpet is comfortable, and I find myself falling fast asleep.

* * *

 _I'm walking down a road in Marjah. It's a road I've walked down a hundred times already. I'm on point with Clyde and Spencer behind me. It's cold, clear, and quiet, except for the crunch of our boots and the sound of prayer we hear every morning. The street will come alive soon with people going to the mosque, washing in the canal, or going to work in their fields._

 _Right now, though, the street is empty. The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I know something is going to go down._

 _I stop and try to warn Spencer and Clyde, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to signal with my hands, but I can't lift them. I want to run back to stop them, but my legs won't move no matter how hard I try._

 _I watch, helpless, as Spencer steps on the pressure plate. And then, boom. He's disappeared, enveloped in a cloud of dust and smoke and fire. The bomb, hidden in the base of a tree, sprays him with shrapnel._

 _Clyde dives to the dirt road, taking cover within a wadi. My limbs unfreeze and I run over to check that he's okay._

 _The lucky son of a bitch is bleeding, but only from his nose. Just like usual. I'm laughing as I check the rest of his body for injuries, but he's clean. We both laugh about it._

 _Only we stop laughing as we remember Spencer and the IED that enveloped him. The dust has cleared and I can now see, plain as day, Spencer's motionless body lying in the mud. Clyde starts screaming for a corpsman and I find myself running over to his corpse._

 _Only, it's not a corpse. At least not yet. Spencer is alive and gurgling blood as he trashes upon the ground. Doc is kneeling over him, attempting to triage his wounds. He screams at me to hold him steady and my hands wrap around Spencer's shoulders to keep him still._

 _Warm blood splashes my face, seeping into the neck gaiter I have protecting my mouth and I gag. Spencer is screaming, or trying to at least. Pleading and praying to God not to let him die here in this mud-hole. Doc is doing all he can_ — _shoving bundles of bandages and quikclot combat gauze into Spencer's wounds, desperately trying to stem the bleeding._

 _Spencer grabs at his own throat_ — _a shard of shrapnel has split his esophagus in two. I pin one of his hands down with my knee, my palm presses down on the wound to keep pressure. My fingers are drowning in red._

 _My other remaining hand grasps with Spencer's. I give it a squeeze, if nothing more than to remind my brother that I'm still here and will be here until the end. I spy a black titanium band around Spencer's ring finger. He had just gotten married before we deployed_ — _and he has a daughter on the way._

 _Suddenly the world shifts and I'm on my back, pain radiating through my body, as if I'm the one who stepped on the mine, and not Spencer. I open my eyes and there's a face above me. An Afghan boy I've seen before who smiles as he fades away._

* * *

I shoot upright on the floor, my bloodshot eyes open and my body on alert, but my brain is still in the hazy space between nightmare and being awake. I can't focus.

My mother is shaking me. Crying. My hands curl around her wrists, squeezing until she cries out in pain. "Lincoln, stop!"

I let go immediately and just sit there, blinking. My heart rate is going crazy and my clothes are soaked through with sweat. I'm shaking a little. Mom smoothes her hand across my forehead the way she did when I was small and had a fever. "It's only a dream. Let it go. It's not real."

I'm fully awake now and I know she's right. _It's not real._ This nightmare is a patchwork of my worst fears and memories. But my imagination wraps itself in this quilt of horror whenever I sleep. I haven't averaged more than a couple hours a night for the last few weeks.

As my heart rate drops back to normal, I watch her rub her wrists. They're red and raw and probably going to bruise. I could have broken them.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," I say shamefully. "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay." She looks at me sadly and I find myself hating everything about being me. "I wish I could erase whatever troubles your dreams."

I'm sorry Mom, but the past can't be rewound and this is the life I chose for myself.

* * *

I didn't have a noble purpose in joining the Marine Corps, or at least not one involving patriotism. I didn't do it to protect American freedom and I wasn't inspired to action by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. I wasn't even _born_ back then. And while the war was still going on while I was in grade school, the biggest priority in my life at the time was any bell that signaled it was time to leave school.

I had several reasons for enlisting really. Only one of them can really be considered noble however. As one can imagine, a family of eleven children can get quite taxing financially. My parents and their economic savings plan played a huge role while I was growing up— take Vanzilla actually. Perfect example. Decent enough gas mileage, sure, but large and roomy enough for the whole family— to help cut costs on buying another vehicle. _At least until Lori went out and bought her very own beater-mobile._

Dad learning how to cook was another good example. We had _thirteen_ people living in our house. Thirt-fucking-teen. Normal families have _no idea_ just how expensive that can get for _just_ dinner alone. Unbelievable, I'd tell them. And while fast food is cheap and easy— that shit is not very nutritious, especially not for young children to make a regular diet off of.

So Dad learned how to cook, to stop us from having to go out to eat often. And although his culinary skills at the beginning were… _rough_ , so to speak, he got pretty damn good at it. Eventually.

Those are simple examples. Basic examples. The real economic hurdles didn't start until the most of us were close to graduation.

Mainly? College is _fucking expensive._

My sisters are smart. Smarter than me, at the very least. Even Leni, who many people consider to be an airhead— she may not be book smart, but she has skills in other areas, a gift really. She knows how to talk to people, how to understand them. Plus she was designing and sewing and stitching professionally made dresses at _eighteen_. That's insane.

My sisters are smart. And smart people get educated— college or trade school. They go, spend a few years studying, graduate and move on to become successful in the real world. The cycle of life.

However, there's eleven of us. Eleven mouths to feed. Eleven futures to worry about. Mom and Dad, they wouldn't be able to handle a financial burden like that. Not for all of us at least. Sacrifices had to be made.

Which was where I came in.

The Post 9/11 G.I Bill can be seen a blessing from above. For four years— enough time to gain a bachelor's degree— good old Uncle Sam will pay for your tuition, books and amenities. Shit, it'll even cover housing. You literally get _paid_ to go to school, to any school you want. The government will give you everything… all they ask in return is for the recipient to write a blank check made payable to The United States of America, for an amount up to and including their life. Not a bad deal to be completely honest.

I brought this up with Lisa once, back when I was still on the fence about the whole 'serving my country' thing. The logical side of her agreed that it was a smart idea. A good solution… but the emotional side of her, the one that doesn't show often, was against the whole thing.

"Statistically speaking brother," Lisa had said to me, her face buried behind her computer monitor. "During the year of the highest surge of military personnel in Afghanistan, there were four hundred and ninety-six fatalities." She said without missing a beat, and I think all I did was blink in response. "That is out of a troop count of one hundred thousand— which, when properly rounded, calculates itself to zero-point-zero-zero-five. You have a _one half of a percent chance_ to be injured or worse in Afghanistan."

At the time, that number seemed ridiculously low to me. "Sooo the odds are nothing bad'll happen to me?" I grinned as her eyes grew as wide as dinner plates behind her glasses. "Y'know, you're really selling this for me sis. You sure you're not a recruiter in disguise?"

Lisa didn't mean it that way, not even close. "No you dolt!" She had jumped up off her chair, marched over and started to poke me in the chest. "The data does not lie! That equals out to a one in two-hundred chance of dying! Such a risk— of any risk— is far too high!"

I tried to reassure her, but to no avail. Same old song and dance with the rest of my sisters. They were all convinced it was a terrible decision, that I was essentially throwing my life away. The overprotective nature of my siblings had taken hold, which led me to my second, more selfish reason on enlisting.

I was tired of being coddled.

Growing up as the only boy with ten sisters— half of them being older— I started noticing just how pronounced the 'motherly instinct' is in a woman. I never paid much mind when I was younger, but as the years went by, it really started bothering me. Annoying me. Infuriating me.

I was supposed to be becoming a man. Instead, I was still being treated as a child. And not even by my parents, but by my own sisters, who were just _barely_ a few years older than me.

I needed to get away— needed to leave the nest, to spread my wings and fly on my own.

The day I turned eighteen— just a few weeks after I graduated high school— I went to the Marine recruiter's office and signed up. More or less. The process is more involved than simply signing your life over to the Marine Corps, but the result is the same: four years of active duty, the next four years in ready reserve. It might not make sense to want to go from a lifetime of bossy sisters yelling in my face to having a drill instructor yelling in my face, but I figured it couldn't be that much different. And at least at boot camp I wouldn't be known as _Lincoln Loud, brother to ten sisters and the only son of the Loud family._

Instead, I'd just be me.

Mom cried when I told her because, in her mind, enlistment meant certain death in a foreign country. She begged me to enroll at Michigan State instead. "I know you didn't get the best grades," she said. "But you can take the basics until you decide on a major. Please, Lincoln, don't do this."

My dad just looked at me for a long time, his brow furrowed, mouth held in a thin line across his face. It was a familiar expression. One reserved for when he was deep in thought. He asked Mom if he could talk to me alone.

We talked. We talked for what felt like forever, and I told him my reasons. No bullshit either. I told him that they'd pay for my college after I was done - that this was best for the family. But I also told him why _I_ personally wanted this. I had to grow up, I had to become my own man. And I couldn't do that here, back at home. I needed to go out on my own.

He hugged me then. Hugged me tight. And that was the first time I'd seen him cry since grandma died.

"I'm proud of you Lincoln," he whispered in my ear, his tears making my own eyes water. "Not because you're enlisting, but because you're making your own decisions." He kissed the top of my head and I remembered feeling like I was eleven years old again.

"You've grown into a fine young man and I'm proud to call you my son."

Funnily enough, at the time, I didn't _feel_ like a man. Not when I was busy completely _bawling_ my eyes out into my father's chest. But it was a start.

Three weeks later, I shipped to boot camp, and didn't come back. Until now.

I can admit now it might not have been one of my smarter decisions, but I didn't want to go to college with our financial worries, and I didn't think I was going to end up in Afghanistan right out of infantry school. I figured I'd be assigned to a base stateside or be sent off to Okinawa or something.

Regardless of my reasons for joining, the funny thing is, I'm a _good_ Marine. Better than pretty much anything else I've ever done in my life. So even though the Marine Corps has its moments of extreme suck— and man do they fucking suck— I don't really regret my choice.

"Lincoln?" Someone taps at my bedroom door as I'm doing up the last button on a blue flannel shirt I found hanging in my room. It's either one of Dad's old shirts or something my mom bought me before I left, hoping I'd wear it. The sleeves pinch at the elbows when I bend my arms, but I've worn the same desert cammies for seven months. My fashion sense has atrophied. "Lincoln, you in there?"

"Yeah, one sec." I jam my foot into one of my tan combat boots. On the outside it's scuffed and worn from continuous wear, with a spatter of rusty bloodstains across the toe. Inside it smells like shit, but I don't have anything else to wear except my running shoes, and I hate those.

I move to unlock the entrance, and the latch just barely clicks open before the door is nearly blown off its hinges and I'm tackled by a supersonic blur of red. My ass hits the deck, and I suddenly find it quite impossible to breathe, what with the impossibly strong _deathgrip_ my sister has around my chest.

Christ. Yes Lynn, I missed you too dude.

" _Lynn,_ " I manage to feebly choke out. " _Can't...breathe...!_ "

"Oh Sorry! Sorry!" She pulls back with a toothy grin and I suck in gulps full of much needed air. "Got a little carried away there, so yeah, sorry!"

First thing I notice is that Lynn has cut her hair. While she never really was one to make a fuss over her hairstyle, she was still a girl, and she always kept her hair nice and long. Though it was always pulled up into a tight ponytail for sports. Now, her hair is cut short into a cute little pixiecut— not nearly as short as Luna's, but a far cry from where her length used to be— her tips resting at the edges of her chin.

"Nice to see your tackle is still in good from." I groan, rubbing my now sore chest. Lynn beams back, her freckled face split wide into a grin. "Somethings never change."

"Speaking of change— dude! You're like, so _tan!"_ She gawks and I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, that kinda happens when you live in a desert country for half a year."

"Yeah well, I didn't expect it smartass." She reaches forward to playfully sock my shoulder, but the action causes me to pull back in reflex and I swear mentally to myself. That's still not normal behavior.

Lynn doesn't seem bothered by it. In fact, she reverts back to her childish ways. "Ha! Two for flinching!" She snorts, jabbing me twice with a fist, acting as if nothing has changed between us over the years.

Despite the contact and my now sore shoulder, I feel a small smile creeping upon my face. Part of me starts to thinks that maybe coming back home for awhile isn't all that bad. "Case and point. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"I was, but the coach let me off early today."

"I thought _you_ were the coach?"

" _Assistant_ coach." She grumbles, holding out a hand to help lift me up off the deck. "I'm not old enough to be head-honcho. Mostly I just drill the kids until they puke."

I imagine Lynn dressed as a drill instructor, campaign cover and all, screaming with spit and bile, and smoking little kids out on some random baseball field. The thought makes me smile. "Yeah that definitely sounds like you."

"Lincoln!"

"Lincoln!"

"Big brother!"

A trio of voices sound off from beyond the hallway, and I find it hard to breathe as I'm once again buried beneath the bodies of my sisters. My vision is obscured by nothing but gold— three heads of blonde that are pinning me to the ground as they laugh and cry. I spy Lynn smirking above and I silently mouth to her _"Please help me."_

Instead, she joins in on the dogpile— further expelling whatever air I have left in my lungs. Traitor.

Lola, Lana and Lily have all grown big from the last time I saw them. Lola looks as if she needs to beat off boys at school with a stick, Lana looks as tough as half of the guys in my unit, Lily's grown a few inches and she's wearing glasses now too— I wonder when that happened?

"Big brother's home! Big brother's _hooome!"_ Lily sings as she straddles my chest, Lana and Lola joining in as they jump up and down on my body. And I think to myself— this is it. This is how I die. Not by getting shot by the Taliban, or blown to shit by an IED. But right here, in my old room, suffocated to death by half of my sisters. Goodbye cruel world.

"Guys please," I mutter through their laughter. "I'm happy to see you too, but can I do this on my feet? With some dignity?"

"Dignity-shmignity," Lily says. "You've been gone a whole year. You've missed Christmas, and my birthday! And Lana's and Lola's!" She pouts and I can see why Mom and Dad still spoil her. Absolutely adorable.

"You missed mine too by the way." Lynn says, offering me another a hand up— Lily and the twins try to pull me back down but I've gained plenty of muscle and weight over the past year. They're fighting a losing battle.

"I apologize in earnest." I state dryly, dusting myself off. "I'll buy you all a belated birthday present. Something nice."

" _Ohhhhh._ Something nice, huh?" Lola has got sparkles in her eyes, and that's how I know she hasn't changed at all in the year I've been gone. Not really at least - once a princess, _always_ a princess. "Shopping spree this weekend?!"

"We'll see," I say, leaning over to give each of them a hug. Lynn is outside my door, still grinning her toothy grin. I feel an urge to join her in the hallway. It's getting too crowded in my room now and I feel claustrophobic.

The scent of cooked beef and potatoes greets me in the hallway, and I swear if Ronnie Anne were standing naked in front of me, begging to get back together, I'd pass her by just to get to the table. The closest we came to a home-cooked meal in-country was the time some of the Afghan National Army soldiers roasted a whole goat, which we ate with a local rice dish and Afghan bread. We had chicken curry from the village bazaar a couple of times too, but that always seemed to give me the shits. Afghans— as nice as _most_ of their people are— aren't the greatest at personal hygiene. And the water they use to prepare their food comes straight from their canals— dirty and full of bacteria.

Mostly we just ate our MREs. Which is short for Meal, Ready-to-Eat. Or, as we usually called it, Meal, Rarely Edible. Or Meals, Rejected by Everyone. Or whatever other stupid name you could come up with that acronym. The chow was instant and you could eat it either warm or cold— it didn't really make a difference though. It was almost always terrible.

"Siblings, our father wishes to inform us that dinner will be ready in ten minutes." Lisa says, making her way up the stairs. She looks completely different— with her hair tied up into a neat bun, wearing a pair of slacks and a business jacket to match— it's a far cry from the maniacal-genius style she had when I left. The suit makes her look way older than any twelve year old should. "Welcome home brother."

"Lisa," I nod. "You're not planning on tackling me too, are you?"

"Of course not." She snorts with an air of superiority. "Such needless human displays of emotion are beneath me." She mumbles something else under her breath, something I can't quite catch.

"What was that Lis?" Lana smirks knowingly and Lisa hides her blush by looking down.

"...I said, I would not be opposed to a hug."

I roll my eyes and my arms engulf her smaller form. Unlike the others, Lisa's hug is quick and reserved— she's still not a fan of dramatic displays of affection. But I know she cares regardless of how she shows it.

"I'm happy to see you've returned, safe and sound, Lincoln." She whispers and my throat goes dry.

Safe? Yeah sure, but sound? Oh Lisa, if you only knew.

Almost as soon as we start, the embrace is over and Lisa is all business again. "Right, I will need to change from my professional business attire before dinner." She coughs, disappearing into her room, leaving us behind in an awkward silence.

"Take that as my cue," I say, heading downstairs. The smell of food starting to become irresistible. "You guys coming?"

"I'll be there in a sec. Gotta call Richie first." Lola says with a faraway look in her eyes. _And just who the Hell is 'Richie'?_ Lana visibly gags from behind her twin, confirming my suspicions. Great, Lola's got a boyfriend now.

"Bathroom first." Lana mutters, rushing down the hall. Lily gasps and is quick on her heels.

"Lana nooo!" She cries after her. "I called dibs!" Lynn rolls her eyes as the two start wrestling over the room. In hindsight— eleven siblings sharing one bathroom _still_ wasn't the best of ideas.

Lynn follows me down, the sounds of struggle fading behind us as we near the bottom steps. Someone's left the TV on in the living room and CNN is running a report on some spoiled celebrity princess who overdosed in her mansion the other day. Underneath the main headline— ignored completely by commentators too busy faking tears for the dead celeb— is a small insignificant scroll of text reporting on a VBIED, or Vehicle-Borne-Improvised-Explosive-Device, that went off last week in Afghanistan. I silently read the text, three Marines from the unit that relieved us were killed, with another two seriously injured and probably medically fucked for the rest of their lives.

The report passes by without a passing mention from the newscasters, who are now spouting off about the rich drug addict over several clips of her party days. They call her a troubled inspiration and a hero to many, and their endless praise makes my fists clench with rage. Three Marines are dead, three of my _brothers_ are dead, but instead of remembrance from the country they loved, all they get is a passing mention in the nightly news. All while the nation mourns some useless celebrity whose only qualification in life was that she was hot and her daddy had money.

Nobody would remember their names. Nobody would remember Clyde's name.

The TV shuts off with a click, and I notice that my jaw hurts— my teeth gritting together so hard they feel as if they're breaking. Lynn has the remote in her hand, an unreadable expression across her face. I want to say something to her but I just can't find the words. Silence looms over us both, and I'm the first to break contact, my eyes focusing on the living room couch and on the dog asleep on the cushions.

Charles is far older than I remember him ever looking. His soft snores echo across the now silent living room, each labored breath he takes causing his chest to ripple. I asked Lana to watch after him when I left, but he's taken on at least ten pounds since last I've seen him, and I wonder idly if she ever bothered to walk him. If anybody in this house ever bothered.

I rub his head softly and the pitbull terrier shoots his head up in surprise. His eyes are milky-white and glassed over. My heart breaks when he doesn't seem to recognize me.

"His vision started to go just a few months after you left." Lynn softly says beside me. Charles may not know it's me, but he does recognize the familiar comfort of someone touching him and he rolls over to his side. "His hearing went shortly after."

"He doesn't recognize me." I whisper as I scratch the old dog's belly.

"He doesn't recognize anyone really, it's not just you Linc." Her words are supposed to comfort, but just wind up feeling empty instead. Hollow. And I feel like I want to break something. Charles was _my_ dog growing up and to see him like this? I just, I can't-

"Hello Lincoln," a voice echos over on my right and myself plus Lynn jump back in alarm— the sudden movement startling Charles, who jumps off the couch in search of shelter. Instinct takes hold and my weight shifts as I instantly square my body into a proper fighting stance. I'm about to throw a punch to defend myself, before I realize— I'm not getting attacked, it's not the fucking Taliban, it's just fucking Lucy sneaking up on me again.

"Jesus Christ Lucy," I snap at her. My heart feels like it's about to explode— anger ignites itself in my chest but this time I don't have the control nor means to put it out. "Don't ever _fucking_ do that again." I'm upset, but more at myself than her. I think I'm just angry in general— angry over the news, angry over Charles' state, and angry over life.

It's not Lucy's fault, I know that. But I can't help myself. I built a dam around my emotions, trying to bottle them back, but the strain is too much and cracks are forming. Leaking through.

The small, almost invisible smile upon Lucy's face is gone now, gone and replace with shock. She stumbles back a few steps and— even though I can't see her expression— I just know that her eyes are probably wide as dinner plates right now. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Lynn gaping at me, and behind her— from the kitchen— I can hear utensils dropping to the floor.

Fuck. I need to get out of here. I didn't mean to do that. _Fuck._

I hear Dad calling my name, but I've already crossed the threshold of the door by then, and it slams shut behind me. I'm almost a block down the road by the time my legs stop pumping and I double over, puking.

Or try to, at least. I dry heave again and again, but nothing up comes except painful contractions. I emptied my tank back at the airport— I've got nothing left to puke up. Instead, I sit down on the curb, my hands rummage through my pockets for a pack of smokes and I light up a cigarette as I wait for my heart-rate to die back down.

I once promised myself, back when I was younger, that I would never take up something as stupidly irresponsible as smoking. Lung cancer is what took grandma from us, and I saw firsthand the toll it took on her body in her final years. But tobacco use is as commonplace as breathing in the infantry. It was bound to happen soon or later.

I still remember the time I had my first taste— it was about an hour after our first patrol in-country, the first time I had somebody shoot at me. Clyde and I, we were resting against the mudwalls of some compound we had set up a patrol base in and the adrenaline was still pumping through our veins. I was still shaking.

"Here," Corporal Sanders, our team leader, said to us. In his hand he held out a crumpled pack of Marlboros, but when I went to refuse, he shook his head. "It'll help Loud, trust me on this." He'd been to Afghanistan once before, so I didn't dare second guess him.

"Aye Corporal," I said, accepting a cigarette for the two of us.

"Quit it with that 'aye corporal' garrison shit." He snapped, lighting one up for himself. "We're in-country, and you two just got into a firefight. Far as I'm concerned, you guys ain't boots anymore." He blew out a puff of smoke from his nose, the cloud dissipating through dry Afghan air. "Call me A.J, dude."

Clyde and I spent the next few minutes passing that cigarette back and forth. Between the nicotine buzz, our dying adrenaline, and A.J giving us permission to call him by name and not rank— we felt more at home in the squad than we ever had before. And the country of Afghanistan seemed a little less scary than it did earlier that morning.

Somebody's weight shifts down beside me and I blink in surprise as Lynn takes a seat on the curb. I give her a glance but her face is unreadable, so I turn away to smoke in silence.

"Those things'll kill ya, y'know?" Lynn's voice is quiet, but I can't really sense any disapproval in her tone. Surprisingly.

"Lots of thing will kill me." I shrug lamely. It's not much of a response and just like that, we're quiet again. The only sound between us is the faint, crackling burn of my smoke, and of her faded chucks carving circles into the asphalt.

"Lucy didn't mean to upset you."

"I know," I nod. "She just… I don't really want to talk about this Lynn."

"Lincoln," she sighs but I wasn't about to budge.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," she frowns defeated. She lets the subject drop and I'm eternally grateful to her for it. She nudges my knee with her own in solidarity, but I say nothing else in response.

Even if I were up to talk about it, I don't even know where I would start. Lucy was always so reserved, so dark and moody— she hardly ever smiled. And here she was, smiling for _me._ Smiling because her only brother in the whole damn world had marched on to war and made it back home. Smiling because she was happy he was alive.

And the first thing he does when sees her? He fucking _snaps_ at her. Like an angry, ungrateful little shit.

I shouldn't be acting like this. This is my family, the people who raised me, yet I can't help but get angry at them. First mom, now Lucy— who's next? Am I going to scream at Lola? Am I going to explode on Lily? I feel like a powder keg, and everyone around me is a lit match, seconds away from detonation.

Fuck me. I should never had come back here.

"Come on Lynn," I stand and she quietly follows. The cigarette is burnt to its filter and I crush the butt beneath my boot. It's time to face the music.

Dad is out on the porch, waiting for us when we get back. Lynn quietly excuses herself back inside and I'm left alone. Alone with my father.

"Hey Dad," I say with a fake smile. He pulls me into a tight hug and I release a weak, shuddering breath in his chest. I hate myself for it.

"Welcome home son." He doesn't ask about what I did to Lucy. He doesn't even ask if I'm okay. He just holds me close, making me feel like a little kid again. "I'm proud of you Lincoln."

"I know Dad," I swallow and I hate how easily the lie forms on my lips. How easy it is to lie to his face. "I'm okay now, I'm happy to be home."

* * *

Nobody says anything at dinner, at least not anything substantial. Just simple small talk and pleasantries that always end in a silence which ends up feeling both welcoming, yet suffocating at the same time— I don't even try to understand why.

Eating with the family is different now, just like everything else I left behind. A few years back, when Lori first left for Florida— it felt as if there was a void in the house, a missing piece to the puzzle that was our abnormally large family. The empty feeling was, for the most part, easy to ignore, up until we would all gather for dinner. It's hard to describe, but conversations would feel strangely unfinished without hearing Lori and her smart-ass comments. Quiet moments would feel off without the constant idle typing of her and her phone, eternally glued to her hand— of her soft giggles in response to Bobby sending her a particularly cute message.

Now though? Lori's not the only one of my sister's missing. Without Leni's bubbly personality, or Luna's enthusiastic nature, or even Luan's constant onslaught of terrible jokes— dinner is just uncertain. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.

Across the table, my eyes make fleeting contact with Lucy's, who immediately averts her gaze in response. She hasn't said a single word to me or anyone else since she first sat down, and know I should be apologizing to her but the words catch in my throat when they form. I don't know what to say.

The gloom hangs over the table like a rain cloud from those old cartoons I used to watch as a kid. Lynn was the only one of my sisters to see what happened, but word spreads like wildfire in our home. Everyone knows I snapped at her, but no one is willing to bring it up. No one's willing to say anything really.

Jesus, this is awkward.

"Lincoln, did you get all the packages I sent?" Mom asks, breaking the silence as she passes me the serving dish of mashed potatoes.

After she accepted that I was going to enlist with or without her blessing, she pursued being a Marine Mom with the same enthusiasm as she was being a Sports Mom for Lynn. She registered on a bunch of internet USMC parent websites, slapped a yellow magnetic _Support Our Troops_ ribbon on Vanzilla, and went insane with care packages while I was away.

In-country, mail was our lifeline to the world back home. Between church groups, the different "any service member" organizations, and parents, it wasn't unusual for a guy to get half a dozen care packages at once. Honestly, getting mail was like Christmas morning, sitting there cross-legged on the ground opening presents. And my mom usually sent me quality stuff— instant heat packs, a coffee press, baby-wipes, beef jerky, even a solar shower that was unfortunately stolen by one of the Afghan National Army soldiers before I even had a chance to use it.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." I was pretty terrible at keeping in touch, but in my defense, we were cut off from the outside world for the first couple of months we were there. Then we got a satellite phone and were allowed to call home every couple of weeks, but only for about five minutes at a time. During one call I suggested she could probably cut back on the dental floss and paperback mysteries and instead send some school supplies for the kids who would mob us on patrol, begging for everything.

"The kids went nuts for the pens and crayons." Water. Candy. Food. Pens. I don't know why, but they loved pens. Afghan children are crazy. "I'm, um—sorry I didn't call much."

Her eyes widen. Probably because I've never been in the habit of apologizing. "Well, we figured you were probably busy," she says.

In Afghanistan, that was true, but I have no excuse for boot camp or for school of infantry. She sent me tons of letters and I never answered any of them. I called her once on the first day of boot camp and recited the words fastened to the wall beside the phone:

 _This is recruit Loud. I have arrived safely at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island. Please do not send any food or bulky items to me in the mail. I will contact you in three to five days by postcard with my new address. Thank you for your support. I love you, goodbye._

And that was about it. Aside from that handful of five-minute phone calls, I haven't talked to her for more than a year.

"Howard always called me after he got a letter from Clyde," Mom says quietly. "So I knew you were okay."

I freeze, mid bite into my shepherd's pie, as a feeling of regret opens up in my stomach. Suddenly I'm not so hungry anymore— I drop the fork to my plate and try to swallow, my mouth impossibly dry.

"Lola, how about you tell everyone how your audition went?" Dad speaks, diverting the conversation away and I couldn't be more grateful to him than I am in this moment.

"Oh yeah!" Lola perks up, a wide smile beaming across her face. "I totally got the part!"

"Big surprise there," Lily smirks. "Lola getting what she wants."

"It's just the way the world works dude." Lana adds in.

"Hush you two. This is a big deal for me." Lola juts her chin up, triumphant.

"What was the audition for?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"There's a youth modeling agency up in Detroit," she explains with a smile. "I got a role for a commercial they're shooting in a few weeks!"

"That's great." I say, happy for her. "You a movie star yet?"

"Give it, like, a few years." Lola childishly sticks her tongue out at me. "I'll send you a postcard from Hollywood."

"Are they paying you?" Lynn asks, shoveling spoonfuls of food into her mouth.

"Lynn," Mom sighs. "Manners please?" Lynn blinks once, swallows and smiles sheepishly at her.

"Sorry! I skipped lunch today."

"It is apparent you refrained from indulging in breakfast as well." Lisa dryly states from her seat. "I took notice our refrigerator unit was uncharacteristically organized come dawn."

Lynn blinks. "What?"

"She means you didn't raid the fridge this morning." Lily chirps beside her.

"Oh." Lynn shakes her head. "I just wasn't hungry today." And I raise an eyebrow at that.

"For both breakfast _and_ lunch?"

"Mmhmm." She shrugs, returning her attention back to her plate.

That… shouldn't be right. The Lynn I remembered was always, and I mean _always_ hungry— like she were a bottomless pit or something. Out of all of us, she was always the one to go back for seconds, Hell sometimes even _thirds_ at dinner. I don't even think I've even seen her skip a meal before, let alone two.

I want to say something about it, ask her about it— but Dad's voice draws me out of my thoughts. And I realize that he's trying to talk to me.

"Sorry, say again?"

"So what was it like?" Dad asks. "Afghanistan, I mean."

"Hot and dirty in the summer, cold and dirty in the winter."

He raises an eyebrow, "So not the best place to set up the next Loud Family vacation home?"

"It wouldn't be my first choice." I snark back at him and there's a familiar gleam in his eye. "Might be worth checking out Somalia though. Weather's similar, but we can get beachfront property there for real cheap. Just gotta watch out for the local warlords."

"Hmm, I'll consider it." He taps his chin, mocking a deep thought and I can't help but grin.

"Did you shoot anyone?" Lana blurts out and my mood instantly sours.

"Lana!" Somebody scolds, but I already zone out the conversation, glaring down at my plate in silence.

I don't blame her, she's just curious. Who wouldn't be? But how the Hell am I supposed to answer that question? Killing someone isn't like picking off bad guys in a video game. You're not shooting pixels and data and code in real life, you're shooting flesh and blood. The first time I shot someone, I thought I was going to puke, but I couldn't because we were in the middle of a firefight and I couldn't stop shooting. It's only after all was said and done that I began to dwell it. Dwell on the fact that I just took someone else's life.

I won't tell my sister that. Not at dinner. Not ever.

"I don't want to talk about it." I say.

Lana has her hands cupped, covering her mouth, eyes wide in fear. Or is that shame? I know she didn't mean to ask that question, but what's done is done and like I said, I don't blame her for it. I offer her a simple shrug and go back to eating, even though I've long lost my appetite.

A thick tension falls over the table, one which Dad tries to break with small talk and bad jokes, but he's unsuccessful in his efforts. Whatever moment we had, it's gone now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lynn shooting several concerned glances my way— I ignore them to the best of my ability.

"May I be excused?" Lucy balls up her napkin and drops it on her plate. The table looks over in surprise at her sudden lack of silence. "I'm not so hungry anymore." Her gaze meets mine for a split second before nervously sliding away. It makes me feel like shit.

"Of course honey." Mom says, an unreadable expression upon her face.

Lucy shoves away from the table and the eight of us spend the rest of the meal in a silence thick with things unsaid. The only sound is the clinking of silverware against the plates. I hate that a simple question from my sister could get under my skin so bad, and I hate that a single year could alienate me so much from the people who raised me. Why am I like this? Shouldn't I feel _good_ to be with them again? Why do I feel closer to a group of guys I've known less than a year than I do my own family?

When it's finally over, I go to my room and lock the door. Mom asks if I want to stay up and wait for Luan to get home, but I ignore her. I'm angry, I'm tired and I just want to go to sleep.

My unit got back to Camp Lejeune a couple of weeks ago and we had to have a post-deployment health assessment to take care of any physical problems we developed in-country— primarily skin problems from washing in muddy canals, acne from having a constantly dirty face, bug bites, and a few guys had lingering coughs from chest infections. The evaluation is also supposed to gauge our mental wellness, but that's a joke. We say everything is okay even if it's not, because the fastest way to wreck your career is to admit that you're screwed up. So I didn't tell anyone about my recurring nightmare. I didn't tell them about Clyde. I only told the doctor I was having trouble sleeping and he prescribed me some pills.

They rattle as I pull the amber bottle out of my bag and dump three tablets into my hand. I swallow them dry, then ease myself to the floor and let the world fade away.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Coming back home from your first deployment is always the roughest. No matter how prepared you say you are, change will always hit you in your most intimate of moments. Lincoln is dealing with what countless other men and woman deal with when they return home from war. Myself included.**

 **When I got back from my first deployment to Afghanistan, I was ecstatic to go back home on leave. To see my family and just enjoy being back in my hometown. Only problem was, three days into my two week leave block, and I was ready to go back to base. I missed my friends I made on my deployment— the guys I shed blood, sweat, and tears with. Now don't get me wrong, I loved my family back home, and I would do anything for them... but I never really had to suffer with them, if that makes any sense.**

 **The bonds of brotherhood are forged in fire and that bond is hard to break. I spent 6 months training with my unit, then spent 7 month in the suck that was Afghanistan. And those were some of the _best_ times of my life. Something special is formed between the man to your left and right, a love that can only form in the mutual suffering of a whole— where the only comfort you get out of life is your brother on either side of you.**

 **When I got first got back, all I wanted to do was go home on leave. It was only when I was back in my hometown, did I realize that my true home was back in my shitty barracks room in Camp Pendleton— getting drunk as fuck with my brothers and reminiscing about that one time we almost all got killed by a danger-close airstrike.**

 **Lincoln isn't being OOC, and he's not trying to be moody-angsty-dark protagonist. He's just grown up and he's homesick— he doesn't hate his sisters and he doesn't hate his parents— he just wants to be back with the guys he raised Hell with. He wants to be back with his brothers.**

 **Coming back from your first deployment is always the roughest. But it gets easier as you go on. And eventually, you learn that it's entirely possible to have two families.**

 **Regardless, I thank you for reading and if you review, for your support.**

 **Till next time—**


	3. Fractures

**These Scars I Carry  
** **Chapter 3  
"Fractures"**

* * *

A loud bang jolts me awake and I immediately scramble to reach for my rifle. For a couple of seconds I panic because it's gone, then I remember I'm in Michigan and my rifle is back in the armory in North Carolina.

"Lincoln! Lincoln!" My mom is pounding on the door and she sounds frantic. I unlock it and she launches herself at me, nearly strangling me in the process. "Oh, thank God. You're awake."

Something wet trickles down my bare chest. She's crying. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"You've been asleep for sixteen hours." She catches a shuddering breath. "And your door was locked. I thought— I was afraid you overdosed."

There are moments—thousands of them during the course of every single day— when I'm swamped with guilt that I came home alive and Clyde didn't, but even then I don't have a death wish. I wouldn't disrespect the sacrifice of him or any of the other guys we lost by taking my own life. I scrub my eye with the heel of my hand, dislodging sixteen hours' worth of crust.

"I was just exhausted." I pat her awkwardly on the back. "I haven't had a good night's sleep in a while. I didn't mean to scare you."

Wiping her tears on the back of her hand, she surveys the nest of blankets on the floor. "Is something wrong with your bed?"

"I've spent a lot of time sleeping on the ground." There were nights we slept in holes in the dirt. Other nights, we slept in abandoned compounds. Our patrol base was an old, decrepit schoolhouse with holes in the roof and birds in residence within the ceiling. "I'm not quite used to a bed yet."

She sits down on my bed. "Do you want a firmer mattress or—What happened to your legs?"

"They're, um…" I look down at the fading red welts that circle my ankles and creep up my calves. My body is covered in them. "They're flea bites."

"Flea bites?" She looks equal parts confused and horrified.

"Yeah, well, after a while everything gets really dirty," I explain. "And the people over there have mud-walled courtyards around their houses where they keep their livestock. Sometimes we'd sleep in there."

Clyde once had his dads send him a flea collar that he strapped around his ankle, but it didn't work. We called him Fido for a while after that, but he'd just bark and go, "Devil dog! Oorah!" Which would crack us up every time.

"You slept with—" Her hand comes up to her mouth. "I can't— I don't even know what to say." Her eyes fill with tears again.

Yeah, Afghanistan sucked. In the summer, we sweated our balls off in the hot sun. In the winter, we had to battle hypothermia. It was the coldest I've ever been in my life, even colder than when I went on a field trip up to Canada for a week.

Poisonous snakes. Camel spiders. Scorpions. Flies. Fleas. Mosquitoes. Sandstorms. Dysentery. Knowing that every time we left the wire, someone was going to shoot at us... I don't miss it exactly, but I do miss being out in the suck with my friends. After dealing with that shit for so long, you get used to it— develop a routine to it. Which makes it even harder to be back because it feels as if I'll never be fully at home here again.

"It wasn't so bad." I find myself saying the truth to her for the first time since I landed in Royal Woods.

* * *

"There's a party at Rusty's tonight." Lynn pokes her head into my room after another uncomfortable family dinner of awkward small talk and things left unsaid. Luan couldn't join us since she was out working another show. Neither did Lucy, who chose to eat somewhere else tonight. Which sucked, because I actually wanted to apologize to her for being such an asshole yesterday.

I'm unpacking my bag. The dresser drawers, I discover, are empty— apparently Mom didn't keep everything the same. Before, she was always nagging me to dress nicer and was embarrassed that I basically wore the same old clothes throughout all of high school. She probably had a field day throwing away all my ratty T-shirts and jeans with holes. Doesn't matter. None of them would have fit anyway.

"You interested?" Lynn asks. Rusty's house is spacious inside, with a sizable backyard perfect for having people over. It's been our party spot since we were freshmen — Rusty's parents being cool with having drunk teenagers over, provided they don't get too crazy or loud.

"You hang out with Rusty? Rusty Spokes?" I ask her. Out of all my old high school friends, Rusty was the one Lynn was mostly cool with, ever since he crowned her the queen of our stupid bicycle gang back when we were kids. That and he was the most athletically gifted of my old friends.

"Sometimes I do." Lynn shrugs, acting nonchalant about it. "He's not so bad at sports. Plus most of my friends are away at school now. Not many of us stuck around Royal Woods after graduation, y'know?"

My gaze falls down to the leg brace she wears around her knee and I feel a pang of sympathy form in my gut. Lynn's whole life revolved around athletics - from her day to day activities, to the people she surrounded herself with. Sports was her everything in life. Now being back home, away from her teammates and the future she planned for herself, I can't help but get the feeling she might be just as lost as I am.

"Will there be alcohol?"

"Duh."

"Then I'm down." I say, cheering up a bit when Lynn gleams back at my acceptance.

"Great!" She grins, "Be ready in an hour, 'kay? I'll see if I can't snag the keys to Vanzilla in the meantime."

"No need," I reach over to my nightstand and grab a set of keys, dangling them in front of her face. "I've got us covered."

Lynn balks back at me. "When did you get a car?!"

"Earlier today, while you were at work." I shrug, pocketing my new keys with a _jingle._ "Figured it was about time to start adulting."

After I woke up from my self-induced coma, I took a cab up to Main Street, which is lined with mom and pop type car dealerships offering the cleanest cars, lowest prices, and onsite financing, and had the driver drop me off at the first place on the strip. I bought an old black Jeep from a tired-looking salesman who gave me a couple hundred off the price for paying in cash. It's nothing special — the tires are balding and the clutch has a lot of play to it — but it's a set of wheels.

Dad might be a little upset, since I'm sure he planned to pass on Vanzilla to me, like his father before him, and his father too… but Vanzilla is _old._ I'm not sure just how many more miles the old girl has left in her. And it's not like I can just take her with me back to Camp Lejeune. I'm not even sure she can make the drive back.

"Where did you get the money?" She asks, curious.

"I had a seven month paycheck waiting for me when I got back." I shrug again, "Gotta spend it on something, right?"

"Oh." She says and an awkward silence falls over us both.

"Sooo meet you downstairs in an hour?"

"Yeah," she twirls a strand of hair between her fingers and I can tell there's something else she wants to say.

"What is it?" I ask her.

"Lucy's gonna be there too." She offers me a weak smile and I blink. Lucy? At a party? _What?_

"Uhhh," I say lamely, not believing what she's saying. "We're talking about same Lucy here, right? Dark, brooding, antisocial, likes to write depressing poetry — _that_ Lucy?"

"The one in the same." She chuckles at my confusion. "You know Rocky? Rusty's younger brother? They're- uh, kinda dating now."

I blink again. _What the fuck?_ "Oh."

"Yeah. Trust me, it's as weird and shocking to you as it is for me. They've been together for a _month_ and I'm _still_ not used to it _._ "

I shake my head. First Lola with this Richie guy, now Lucy with Rusty's younger brother? Christ, what else have I missed? Does Luna have a rock-star girlfriend now? Maybe Leni has a fiancee in California she hasn't told us about yet.

"That's, uh, not gonna be a problem, is it…?" Lynn is hesitant in asking, so I wave her off.

"No, no. This is perfect. I need to apologize to her anyways." She releases a breath she must've been holding, relief clear on her face.

"Good," she smiles at me. "Maybe now the house will be a little less awkward now."

I offer her a another of my fake smiles. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll screw things up with someone else in this house soon." The joke is supposed to lighten up the tension, but it backfires, if Lynn's expression is anything to go off of.

"Umm," she frowns and before she says anything, I interrupt.

"I'll meet you downstairs in an hour. I've gotta shower quick." I turn away to finish unpacking my seabag.

"Okay," Her voice trails off, uncertain as the door shuts in her face.

* * *

As little as I've spoken to my family since I first left, I think I've had even _less_ contact with the guys I used to pal around with back in high school. Hell, if I'm being completely honest with myself, I'm not sure I'm ready to see my old friends yet, but I don't want to spend the evening watching military crime shows with my parents. Not only because it's always a Marine who ends up dead on those shows, but because I can't take another uncomfortable minute in their silence. Ever since dinner last night, it's been like the two have been walking on eggshells around me, acting as if any little thing they do can possibly set me off.

 _Are they wrong though?_ A voice in my head, one which sounds suspiciously like Clyde, chastises me and I have to begrudgingly agree. I haven't been on my best behavior around my folks. Maybe some space would do me some good. Well, that and alcohol.

Outside, I lower myself into the driver's seat of the black Jeep Wrangler I bought earlier today. The faint smell of pot mixed with air fresheners solidifies the fact that I got the car used, but I don't really mind. I'm not like other Marines, who get back from their deployments and immediately go buy brand new muscle cars and big, lifted trucks they can't really afford — a set of wheels that's not going to breakdown is good enough for me.

Lynn drops into the passenger seat beside me and the scent of perfume overwhelms the car. I cough and roll down my window. "Damn Lynn, did you bathe in that shit?"

She says nothing, but her eyes are wide with embarrassment and I can spy a blush upon her cheeks. Wait a minute — no, that's not a normal blush. She's wearing makeup. And foundation and eyeliner.

Lynn wearing makeup? Lynn wearing perfume? _Lynn-fucking-Loud_ wearing both makeup _and_ perfume?

Holy shit. This must be a dream. Either that or Hell has officially frozen over. I stick my head out the window and put a hand to my ear. Any second now, I'm sure I'll hear trumpets sound and children crying.

"What are you doing?" Lynn asks.

"Seeing if I can hear hooves clatter in the distance - the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse can't be too far behind."

"Screw you dick!" She cries, punching me in the arm a couple times and I can't help myself from laughing. Actually no, those aren't playful punches, they actually hurt. Ow.

"Sorry! Sorry!" I laugh, hands held up in defeat as my sister glares back at me. "I'm sorry, it's just I'm not used to seeing you all…"

"What Lincoln?" She glares, daring me to finish that sentence and I swallow once. "Seeing me all _what?_ "

"...Girly?" I smile sheepishly at her, and she thankfully doesn't retaliate. Instead she crosses her arms in a huff and glares out the passenger window.

"I can be 'girly' if I want to be, jackass." She mutters without looking at me and I grin back at her. Unapologetically of course.

It's not like I haven't seen Lynn all dolled up before. She's worn makeup and perfume for her high school prom, and again for big, fancy family get-togethers. It takes something important, something special to get her all superficial like this. Which makes me wonder why-

Oh. Duh. Now I get it.

"So did you bring any protection?" I say, turning the key in the ignition and letting the engine come alive.

"Bring _what?_ " She whirls back to me, her eyes narrowing like slits.

"Protection." I say flatly, trying not to smirk and failing _spectacularly_ at that. "Because obviously you're looking to get laid. And as your brother, I want to make sure you're properly prepar-"

I don't get to finish my lame joke, because I'm too busy weathering a barrage of closed fists and angry swearing, courtesy of my sister - whose eyes are alive with electrified intensity. And I think this, this right here, _this_ is the Lynn I remember. The sister who would go to whatever lengths in order to win, the Lynn with that never ceasing spark in her eyes. That burning fire that would never extinguish.

"You're such a dick." She mumbles into her seat, but I spy a small smile on her face and I grin back at her.

"Comes with the occupation." I say as the Jeep's engine ignites to life and we're off.

* * *

We pull up in front of Rusty's about twenty minutes later, and I guess I'm expecting it to be different too. Except the white suburban home with the crooked porch steps never changes. There's a beer can on the porch railing that's been sitting there as long as I can remember. Even on the rare occasion someone decides to clean the place, no one ever touches the beer can. It's become art.

"Linc, dude, where you been?" The first person to greet me is Trent Middleton, half-baked and heavy-lidded, a halo of pot smoke around his dirty blond head. He's sitting in the same saggy lawn chair he was sitting in the last time I was there. Maybe he's been there the whole time. With Trent, it's not implausible. He graduated with me, but as far as I know he's never had a job— unless selling weed counts.

"Afghanistan."

He looks off into the middle distance for a moment, a ghost of a smile on his face, and I can tell he's somewhere else entirely. "Oh, yeah… sweet."

The living room is a mosh pit, all the homely furniture pushed up against the walls to make room for dancing, and a DJ— who's probably one of the kids I graduated with— warms up in the dining room. As I walk through the house, people reach out to me, shaking my hand and welcoming me home. Instead of feeling welcome, I feel hemmed in, like at the airport. Jittery. Freaked out at being in the middle of a crowd without my rifle.

"I need a beer," I say to no one, and my trigger finger flexes as I press my way through the crowd to the backyard.

Out back, there are more people here than there were in-doors. A couple kegs and coolers filled with alcohol chill off in the corner. There's a table set up in the center, and a crowd of people - some familiar, some not - gather around to play beer pong.

A familiar head of black hair catches my eye, and I spy Stella Lee perched on the counter of a table, a plastic cup and - what I can only assume - is a joint in the same hand. She's gesturing wildly as she talks animatedly to a group of girls I don't know.

Highly opinionated and always the life of a conversation, Stella had been one of my good friends throughout my childhood. She kinda became our group's token _'friend-who's-a-girl-but-not-a-girlfriend'_ friend, taking over after Ronnie Anne moved away. Despite that, I'm certain that everyone in our group of friends had fallen in love with her at one point or another. I know I did.

Stella laughs at something one of the girls says and her black hair is marble shiny and her plush lips are stained red from whatever she's drinking. Her eyes break away from her friends and meet mine. I grin as I feel the magnetic pull and have to subtlety remind myself that we're just friends. And that's all we'll ever be.

Before I can approach her, Rusty comes up. "Linc, man, welcome home!"

He goes in for a slap hug that I know will turn into a takedown attempt. It always does. He lowers his shoulder and circles my waist with his arms, trying to wrestle me to the floor. We used to be more evenly matched, but now he doesn't stand a chance. I offset his weight, curl my leg around his and drop him. Textbook leg sweep.

"Dude, you may as well call terminal uncle." I laugh as I haul him to his feet.

"It's been too fucking long." He gives me a hug for real this time. "How ya been?"

"Good." Lie. "You?"

"Same shit, different day, y'know?" Rusty shrugs.

I have no idea what it's like to be the nineteen-year-old night manager of Taco Bell with a pregnant girlfriend. I'm not saying Rusty made the wrong choices—he's living an honest life and it's not my place to judge—but, no, I _don't_ know. I've spent the better part of a year on the other side of the planet in a country where a guy will shake your hand and smile, then go pick up his AK-47 and shoot at you. Where a little boy will demand—with no tears in his eyes—that you give him a hundred bucks compensation for accidentally killing his mother, which is less than the going rate for killing his dog. Normal life just isn't something I can relate to anymore.

Stella hops down from the table counter and heads toward me and Rusty. She's grinning wildly and her hips sway as she walks. Shit, I have to _force_ my eyes to stay focused on her face.

Stella cocks her head at me and smiles. "Well, if it isn't G.I. Joe."

"G.I. Joe," I take her drink and down it in a single swallow. It's fruity, but the alcohol is strong. "Was a pussy."

She laughs her smoky, sexy laugh and kisses my cheek. Her breasts brush against my arm as she hugs me tightly and I return the embrace with one arm.

"Both arms please. At least act like you've missed me."

I roll my eyes with an fake sigh, but my other arm wraps around her with a grin. She feels good between my arms, warm, and I feel my pants stiffen slightly. I'm not ashamed though,even if she's _just_ my friend. Stella's beyond attractive and I'm chalked full of hormones since I haven't gotten laid in over seven months.

If Johnny "Chopper" Dickson were here right now, he'd theorize in his Tennessee drawl that chicks like Stella are naturally attracted to Marines since we're — in his own words, not mine — ' _warfighting badasses'_. He's a wiry little guy with bright red hair and a lower lip constantly bulging with Copenhagen. We call him Chopper because he snores like the exhaust of a Harley Davidson, which is extra funny considering just how small the guy is. He talks real fast, as if he doesn't get all the words out at once, they'll disappear. He talks shit about girls, even though he has zero experience and even less game. Clyde and I never used to let him get away with it.

"I call bullshit, Johnny," Clyde said once, after Chopper claimed he had sex with a University of Tennessee cheerleader. "You're just a lying, red-haired little bast—"

"Shut the fuck up." Chopper gets all huffy when we make fun of his hair or call attention to the fact that he is the smallest guy in our platoon. "Indy's got a weird hair color, too." Yeah, my snow-white hair wasn't exactly common, but he thought including me in his affliction will lend him credibility. He was dead wrong.

I laughed and dropped my arm around his shoulder. "The color of your hair is irrelevant when you're as handsome as me."

The memory brings both happiness and pain. I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale a deep breath.

"You okay?" Stella asks, bringing me back to the moment and I release her from my hold.

"Yeah I'm fine. Guess that drink I stole from you was a little strong for me."

Stella smirks. "Bit of a lightweight there Lincoln Loud?"

She's not wrong. I haven't had a sip of alcohol during my seven months in Afghan, and I wasn't really up to drinking back in the barracks when we got back. My tolerance is basically nonexistent now. "It's definitely been awhile."

"All the more reason to drink then." Lynn says, appearing behind us with a pair of beers in hand. "Here ya go bro." She passes me a cup and I thank her with a nod.

"Oh my God, Lynn! What did you do to your hair?" Stella exclaims as she pounces on Lynn and I take a step back.

"Oh, I, umm," Lynn stammers a bit and I blink in surprise. She's nervous? Embarrassed maybe? Regardless, that doesn't seem like her at all.

Stella, through whatever otherworldly-female intuition, salvages the conversation. "No no, it looks _really_ good! Where did you go? Marcy's Salon?"

"No, I uhh, cut it myself."

Me and Rusty balk in surprise while Stella squeals in delight. " _You_ cut it?! Oh you've gotta show me how. I've been wanting to cut my own hair for _forever_ now!"

The girls' conversation takes off from there, a bit one-sided on Stella's part, but I pay no mind. I look over to Rusty who offers me another beer as I've already finished mine.

"Thanks man."

"No prob." He says and a thick, awkward silence falls over us.

"So how are the other guys doing?" I ask him, taking a decently sized drink from my cup.

"They're good man. I don't see Liam much since he spends most of his time at the farm, but Zach should be around here somewhere… probably sucking face with his underage girlfriend." He shudders slightly and I give him a fake chuckle in order to keep the conversation alive.

"He's still cradle-robbing huh?"

"Yeah bro, its gross," He gags. "Don't get me wrong— I love the guy, but he _really_ needs to start picking up chicks his own age."

I nod in agreement and a spark of inspiration hits me. "We should all hang out soon. Just like old times man." I speak without thinking and immediately regret my choice as the implications of what I say hits me.

Rusty tries not to let it show, but over the past year I've gotten better at reading people. I can see, plain as day, his face drop and I know I just screwed up. "Yeah man, just like old times…" His voice is quieter than it was, muted. Empty. And what's left unsaid hangs in the air between us.

 _Just like old times… except without Clyde._

"So how long are you home?" To his credit, Rusty bounces back from a conversation I was almost certain I prematurely ended. I'm both in envy of his ability to move past shit and also in gratitude for him not bringing up Clyde, even if both of us were thinking it.

"A month," I say.

He nods. "Nice."

The noise of the party fills in the space where the conversation should continue but doesn't, and Rusty just does that nervous little laugh people do when they don't know what to say. If Clyde were here, he'd say something to keep us going. A joke or some stupid question that would certainly start a lighthearted argument. We used to talk about everything, from the philosophical to the ridiculous—like who would win in a fight between a liger and a grizzly/polar bear hybrid. We nearly got into a fight ourselves over that one.

Without him here, it feels like there's something incomplete between me and Rusty. Something empty.

"How's, um—how's Sadie?" I ask lamely.

"She's good." He nods again. "The baby is due in September. A girl."

"That's awesome, man, congratulations." I take a sip of beer, looking for an escape. Rusty was one of my best friend in high school, but now… I know there's a place inside me that still cares about him—about all of them—but tonight I can't really find it.

The DJ inside starts playing his set list, and Rusty looks relieved. Maybe we were both looking for an escape. "Talk to you later, bro?"

I nod and he's soon swallowed up by the dancing mass of people in the living room. The bass makes the walls rattle and I wonder if this will be one of those nights when the neighbors call the police. In the middle of the crowd I see one dark head, standing still in the middle of the thrashing bodies. Black hair puffs out from his head in random cowlicks just like… Clyde.

He stares at me.

I blink, and he's gone.

"Lincoln, are you okay?" I hear Lynn's voice pulling me back to reality. "You spaced out for a second."

"Yeah, I'm fine." But I'm not. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades beneath my shirt. I tip my cup back and drain it. "I just need a beer."

Trent is at the keg, refilling his cup. "Linc, my man! Where you been?"

Kid seriously needs to cut back on the weed. "We've already had this conversation, Trent."

"Oh, yeah." A stoned giggle rolls out of him. "Afghanistan, right?"

"Right."

"Dude, did you see any poppies?"

Leave it to Trent to ask me about the drugs. "Like the _Wizard of Oz_ , man," I say, because that will make him happy, but we didn't take naps in the poppy fields of Afghanistan. We took contact from the Taliban.

I fill a cup, then go inside to the living room, my insides still coiled from—I'm not even sure what to call what happened.

Hallucination? Haunting? Maybe a bit of both?

Standing with my back to the wall, I watch the party going on around me. A couple of girls in tiny skirts stare at me on their way upstairs to the bathroom. My buddy Zach, who graduated with the unofficial senior superlative of _Most Likely to Do Time for Dating Underage Girls_ , is hitting on a girl who looks about fifteen or sixteen. Trent and his girl - I think her name was Zoey or some shit? - Are deep into one of those stoned conversations filled with profound insights they won't remember tomorrow. A plate full of shots makes its way around the party and I inhale one with gusto. The shot is dark, bitter, and I know from the taste that it's bottom shelf cheap stuff. I don't care though and I reach for another one. Somebody I don't know cheers me on.

Used to be I was part of this, this devil may care attitude and lifestyle. Now though? I wonder where, if anywhere, I fit. And if I even care.

A familiar head of raven locks catches my eye and I spy Lucy and Rocky sneaking up the stairs, hand in hand. Sensing the change in gravity — in that creepy little way that she does — Lucy glances back and holds my gaze. We stare for a few seconds before I man-up and offer her a little wave along with a weak smile. She returns the wave about as half-hearted as I sent her, before disappearing with Rocky and I feel slightly better about myself.

It wasn't a real apology, not even close, and I know I owe her an actual one later - but at least now she knows that her older brother doesn't hate her. That there's no bad blood between us. It might be small, but it's a step in the right direction.

My cup empties and I return back outside to refill it. Lynn and Stella are gone— where to? I don't know and in my buzzed state, I don't really care. I beeline for the keg and fill up another cup, one which I down in seconds. A few beers later, I trigger the nozzle again, but nothing except for foam comes out. So I move on and try the next keg. This one is an empty as the last.

"Son of a bitch." I mutter to myself.

"Whoa, pump the brakes there, cowboy." A perky voice chirps off to my side — there's a girl with a mass of light brown hair pulled into one of those sexy-messy librarian knots. Compared to the other chicks at the party, she's overdressed; the only skin she has showing is a narrow strip between the top of her threadbare Levi's and a washed-out blue T-shirt. "Save some booze for the rest of us."

Her green eyes meet mine and I frown as my inebriated mind tries to put a name to her face. She looks familiar and I know that I know her from somewhere, but I just can't seem to remember right now. So instead, I play it cool and shrug my shoulders.

"Just trying to get a drink around here."

"I can see that," her voice is light even though she has to talk over the thumping of bass and the cheers from the nearby beer pong table. "But unless you brought your own, I think you might be out of luck."

A thought strikes me. "Did you bring your own?"

She cups her chin and taps at it idly. "I think I may have a bottle of rum stashed away in the kitchen somewhere."

"Somewhere _where_ exactly?"

"Somewhere secret," she grins.

Oh, so it's gonna be like that, huh? "Are you willing to help a guy out?"

"I might be," she says. "What do I get out of it?"

"My time and attention." It's not the smoothest line I've ever used, but I'm not feeling smooth. I'm jagged. And drunk. But she laughs anyways so I guess it's okay. "I'm Lincoln by the way."

"I know." She's smug in the way she says it and I mentally kick drunk-me for not remembering who she is. "Follow me."

"Okay." My eyes wander down to her ass as I follow her inside. It's nice. Kind of bubbly. My beer-soaked consciousness has got sex on its mind. Hormones and all that shit.

I'm not ashamed though. It's been a long time since I've gotten laid, and I'm currently surrounded by cute girls as far as the eye can see. It's a far cry from Afghanistan, where women are hidden under burqas and not allowed to talk to you. Besides, the women there… well, the Qur'an forbids nearly everything fun anyway, so even if you could see their faces, there's not much point in even considering it.

I did kiss a Muslim girl once. When Clyde and I first arrived at Camp Lejeune, the rest of our unit was on pre-deployment leave. We had to stay on base for a crash-course version of all the training the battalion had done while we were still at school of infantry. Just before we were scheduled to deploy, Clyde and I were given a few days of leave so we could go home. Instead, we went to New York City. Chopper—we didn't even really know him very well, but he was new like Clyde and me—invited himself along.

At a club the first night there, Clyde was hitting on this girl from some upstate college. She told me her roommate had just broken up with her boyfriend and a kiss from a hot—her words, not mine—Marine would restore her friend's faith that not all men are assholes. As Clyde's ever loyal wingman, I knew there was a better than average chance her friend was beat, but I was committed and drunk.

Except she wasn't ugly. She was beautiful, with dark, hopeful eyes— even though she was trying not to look hopeful— and I couldn't have been an asshole if I wanted to. She wouldn't let me do anything other than kiss her—believe me, I tried—but the gods of getting laid smiled on me for the rest of that weekend. Afterwards, Chopper— who failed to seal the deal with every girl he met — called me a haji-lover for kissing a Muslim girl.

He spent the trip to Afghanistan nursing a bruised and busted bottom lip.

I follow Miss 'I-know-your-name-but-I'm-not-gonna-tell-you-mine' to the kitchen, where Rusty, Lynn, Stella, Rocky, Lucy and a few others are sitting around the table, reminiscing about some camping trip they went on last summer. Lucy is sitting on Rocky's knee, his hand curled around her hip - part of me wants to jump in and break the two apart, as per any overprotective older brother would. But I don't want to make things worse between us, so I swallow down the urge and follow Miss Librarian Knot to the sink. She fishes out a bottle of spiced rum hiding within a cabinet and starts pouring us both a shot.

"Jordan!" Stella cries, delighted. "You didn't tell me you brought rum!"

"That's because you didn't ask Stella." The brunette beside me says in a sing-along voice as she hands me a cup. I blink once.

"Wait, Jordan? As in _Girl_ Jordan? _That_ Jordan?"

She shoots a toothy grin at me. "Awww, Lincoln, so you _do_ remember me."

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, or maybe it's the alcohol? Regardless, I don't know what to say, so I swallow down my drink first before speaking. "Sorry. I uhhh, I didn't recognize you." Fucking smooth Loud. Smooooth.

Jordan rolls her eyes. "It hasn't been _that_ long, Linc."

"I know, it's just, well, you used to be taller." It's a lame excuse, I know — but Girl Jordan used to be able to look down on me. She was the tallest girl in our grade.

"Yeah well, your hair used to be longer." She reaches up to ruffle my hair and I don't flinch away. "I like it short though. It looks good on you. Clean."

I grumble something in response, still too embarrassed to think of anything clever to say, and instead pour myself another shot of rum. I'm too drunk for this shit… or maybe not drunk enough.

"How much have you had to drink?" Lynn asks me and I squint my eyes at her, or at least I think I do. It's hard to tell with the room spinning as it is.

"Dunno. A little."

"He means a lot," Jordan says, taking a seat at the table. I stumble a bit when I take the empty spot next to her, something Lynn takes notice of. "He was outside, chugging beer after beer until the keg was empty."

"Lincoln!" Lynn cries, "Did you forget you drove us here?" I totally did actually. Whoops.

"You can drive, can't you?"

"No genius," she lifts up the cup she's holding. "This is my fourth cup. And I'm not risking a DUI."

"Why bring me along if you didn't want me to drink?"

"I didn't say that." She huffs, annoyed. "I just wanted you to relax, get a little buzz, maybe. _Not_ get completely shitfaced."

I blink. "Shit."

Before I joined the Marines, I wasn't really an avid drinker. Getting a little buzzed was fine, but I never really tried to get wasted. Just enough to relax a bit, y'know? But light drinking doesn't relax me anymore - only when I'm shitfaced does that happen. I don't tell Lynn that, though. It'd do nothing but send up red-flags.

"I can drive." Lucy's monotone voice silences us at the table. "My heart might be dark and shrouded, but my mind is clear and sober."

"You're good to drive Luce?" Lynn asks her, ignoring her melancholy.

"I am. I don't drink beer or liquor. Just wine."

Jordan cocks her head, "Why wine?"

"It reminds me of blood." Lucy simply shrugs and almost everyone at the table groans. Typical Lucy.

"So we're all good then." I say to Lynn, "Lucy will drive. You worry for nothing." My words are slurred and messy and she doesn't look impressed.

"Yeah great, only one problem though."

"What?"

Lynn looks over to Lucy. "Luce, can you drive stick?" And she shakes her head.

Oh. Right. Shit.

"Ohhhh." Rusty winces, "Tough break dude."

"I can teach her as we go." I say stupidly with much bravado and even drunk me knows this is a terrible idea. I doubt I could teach her sober, much less drunk off my ass as I am now. Stupid stupid stupid.

"Annnnd we're back to square one." Lynn says with a frown.

"I can do it." Lucy says flatly. Lynn stares back at her skeptically.

"You sure about that Luce? It'll probably be a little… _rough_."

"Good." She nods, "My spirit has been remarkably unbroken for sometime now. It would be a welcome change to dwell in perpetual sorrow once more."

Rocky sighs beside her. "Babe, can we at least _try_ to keep the mellow drama down? Just for tonight, _please?_ "

"Meh. I'll think about it."

The conversation takes off from there, and I sit for a while, but I'm not really paying attention. Instead, I'm thinking about the last time I got drunk. Just before we deployed, Chopper smuggled a bottle of cheap, nasty-ass tequila into our room and we drank it while watching episodes of One Tree Hill on Clyde's laptop. When Chopper passed out, snoring and drooling on my pillow, Clyde and I talked about being back in Royal Woods, for what felt like the first time in ages. Although the guys in our platoon knew we we're from the same home town, they never knew anything about our home because we never bothered to talk about it. They never knew I had ten sisters, and they never knew that Clyde had two fathers.

"I don't really talk about it because I don't want to get shit for it, you know?" He said. " _McBride has two daddies._ Shit like that."

"You never tried to hide it back home though," I said, taking a swig of tequila and passing the bottle back to him. "Why's it only bothering you now?"

"Because I was kid when I moved to Michigan dude." Clyde took a hefty drink and shuddered from the taste. "Everyone who knew didn't give a shit, we were too young for that. If I had been older, I probably would've kept it secret."

"Would you have told me? If we met when we were older?"

"Of course I would've. You're my best friend Linc. I love you man."

I smirked at him. "Gaaaay."

"Fuck you too, asshole." He said, punching me in the arm.

I might have made fun of him more if I hadn't been so drunk, but the tequila made us maudlin. Morbid.

"If anything happens to me over there, Lincoln, I want you to go see my dads, okay? Let them know I loved them."

"Dude, don't be so fucking stupid," I said. "I'm never going to see your dads because the only thing that's ever going to happen to you is me, kicking your ass."

I was wrong. God, was I wrong. The worst thing did happen—and I couldn't stop it.

I lift my beer cup for a drink. Dirt fills the lines of my hand, and my fingers are stained with blood. The cup slips from my grasp, splashing rum across the top of the table. Lucy jumps off Rocky's lap, and Stella is shrieking something at me, but I don't understand what she's saying. My chest is tight and I'm having trouble breathing.

I have to get out of here.

My chair falls over as I stand up. "Linc, where are you going?" Lynn calls after me, but I don't answer. I push my way through the living room and to the front door. Someone unfortunate stands in my way and I shove them aside as I breach the threshold and stumble to the grass. The air is cooler outside, clear, as I pull it into my lungs in great, giant gasps until my heart rate returns to its regular rhythm. I look at my hands. They're clean.

"Jesus Christ." I mutter to myself. The grass is damp and cold - it helps shock me back into focus.

"Hey motherfucker, what's your problem?!" There are footsteps crunching on the ground behind me. Two pissed off dudes are stomping their way towards me and my wobbly knees stand straight as I squint through the alcoholic haze. I know them.

Hank and Hawk. Two trailer-trash bullies who used to torment me and my friends back in grade school — all the way up to high school, really. I used to play pee-wee football against them, and they were the _biggest_ douchebags I knew at the time. From the look of the their shitty ass clothes and rough exterior — it seems like they still are.

"What do you guys want?" I slur back at them.

"We want you asshole." Hank says and drunk me wants to laugh at how unbelievably gay that sounded. Instead, my blood boils when Hank emphasizes his point by shoving me once in the chest.

"The fuck is your deal man?" I literally, no shit, _snarl_ at him for touching me.

"What's _your_ deal?" Hawk says, closing the distance between us to yell right in my face. He shoves me again and I have half a mind to slug him right then and there.

In my heavily lidded alcoholic state, the small part of me that's still sober racks my brain for what I could have possibly done to piss them off. Then I remember — in that mad dash I made to get to the door, I shoved somebody out of the way. It must have been Hank. Or maybe Hawk. Either way, it would make sense why these two are so royally pissed off at me. I did kinda get physical with them first, even if I didn't mean to.

The smart thing to do right now is to apologize and explain what happened. We could be adults about this—even if Hank and Hawk are complete dickheads and deserved whatever shit happens to them— I doubt they want to start a fight. This is a party. They didn't come here looking for a fight, they came here to relax and drink. Like me. Like everybody else here. Talking things out would be the rational thing to do.

Thing is though, I'm not rational right now. Not even close — I'm drunk, angry and _really_ want to kill something right now. My heart is pounding in my ears and I can feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins. It feels good, makes me feel alive and I don't want it to stop.

So I throw rationality out the proverbial-fucking-window by grabbing Hawk by his shoulders and smashing my forehead against his nose. Blood squirts, cartilage breaks, and my head immediately starts throbbing.

It feels fucking _good._

Hawk collapses to the deck, his hands rushing up to grasp at his broken nose. I take a step to correct my balance and the right side of my face suddenly explodes in bright, hot pain. I'm seeing stars.

Oh right, the other guy. Duh.

I'm drunk as shit right now, so the pain isn't as bad as it could be, but I still stumble to the ground. Hank is right behind me, kneeing me harshly in the side and pushing me over so I'm on my back. Which was about the stupidest he could have done in that moment. Even as impaired as I am in this moment, I know how to fight - this position I was in, with my back turned to him - I would have been completely at his mercy. You can't fight back if you're not facing your opponent.

Now though, with my back to the deck and my front facing him—even if he's on top of me, I can still defend myself. I use my weight and positioning to my advantage by reaching underneath his thighs and shoving him forward. The momentum pushes him up and over my head, his arms forced to reach out and catch himself on the grass to either side of my face.

My left arm curls around his, my right hand pushing up against his shoulder as I kick my leg up and drive my weight to the left. The energy of my push flips him over and I'm quick as I mount my self above him. The tables turn. Hank and Hawk, they're both brawlers, all brute force and heavy mass. They can be dangerous, sure— but if you can manipulate their own weight against them, the fight can go in your favor.

It was something the instructors taught us in boot and in the fleet — that you can't always be the biggest, the strongest, the fastest or even the baddest dude on the field — but you _can_ be the most prepared. _One mind, any weapon,_ they would say. Now, I'm not an experienced fighter by any means, but I've had these martial arts drills _seared_ into my mind from almost day one— it's just muscle memory at this point. Even with all the alcohol flooding my system and the adrenaline drowning out my thoughts— something just clicks. I'm running on instinct.

I'm reigning over Hank now, my weight pressed down on his waist and I just start _wailing_ on the fucker. To his credit, he tries to turtle up and block, but there's not really much he can do but just lie there and take it. And as his arms begin to slacken with each punch I throw, I find myself grinning wildly like some drunken fool. Every blow sends tremors shooting up my arms with recoil. I feel my knuckles split open and blood— either his or mine or both of ours— stains his marred face red. I feel alive.

The adrenaline I get from this fight is amazing, intoxicating even. The last time I felt like this, there were bullets flying over my head. I know how unbelievably screwed up it sounds, but being in the middle of a firefight is just about the ultimate rush you can get out of life. I mean, fuck drugs man, getting shot at is the ultimate high. It's something I'll never be able to top — I'll be chasing that dragon until the day I die.

Somebody's weight crashes into me and I'm suddenly thrown off Hank's unconscious form. I collapse to the lawn, and the cold dampness of the grass sorta helps to shock some sense back into me. Sorta. I'm still pissed and hyped up on adrenaline like it were dope, so I try to get back up to finish what I started. But there's a pair of unfamiliar hands weighing me down, pinning me to the grass. I struggle against them before somebody slaps me in the face. Hard. I blink.

Even drunk me knows, you don't slap someone when you're in a fight. You slap someone to get them _out_ of a fight.

"Lincoln, _stop!_ " Someone howls in my ear, and I look up to see Lynn and Jordan holding me down. Lucy and Stella are standing behind both of them— from my position, I can look up and see the former's eyes through her bangs. They're as wide as dinner plates— awestruck and maybe a bit scared.

"Oh Christ." A familiar head of red stumbles beside us. Rusty, wide eyed and hesitant, positions himself between me and Hawk. He's playing mediator, but he doesn't have to— Hawk is busy trying to wake up Hank, who's straight up knocked out on the deck. There's blood streaming down his nose, and Hank's face looks like beef jerky at this point.

Holy shit. Did _I_ do that?

"What the Hell happened?!" Rusty shouts and Hawk looks up from Hank, who's just starting to come back around.

"Fuckface over there fucking _jumped_ us!" He scowls at me, hate gleaming in his eyes and I feel my blood boil. Again. "He's a fucking psychopath."

I glare back at him. "You wanna say that again bitch?" I try to get up, but Lynn's fingertips press into my shoulder blades, her weight holding me down. "You started that shit."

"You shoved us! And you broke my fucking nose!"

I grin, even if that causes me a bit of pain to do so. "Looks like an improvement to me."

Hawk sneers at me as he helps Hank back to his feet, throwing his arm over his shoulder. "You talk a lot of shit Loud." He spits at the ground, towards me. "Fucking cocksucker."

"Takes one to know one shithead." I laugh in his face.

"Were you always like this? Or did it take your faggot-ass boyfriend _dying_ to find your balls?"

It gets quiet then, quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop if there was one. Someone behind me gasps quietly and I feel Lynn's hand on my shoulder falter for a only a second, but it's enough. With a shove, I break free from her hold and rush forward. Jordan manages to keeps her hands clamped around my arm, but I just drag her along. Her feet carve themselves into the lawn and she lets out a yelp of pain as we go, but I don't care.

All that matters is that I kill this son of a bitch. Right here. Right fucking now.

Hawk nearly drops Hank as he scrambles backward, clearly not expecting me to rush him like this. He collides into a crowd of people that are collected around us to watch the fight, the two of them falling over themselves in a avalanche of bodies. Hawk smashes his broken nose against somebody's shoulder and he cries out in pain. Too fucking bad. He shouldn't have insulted Clyde like that. He deserves _worse_. And I plan to give it to him.

Only I can't, because Rusty steps in between us and catches my balled fist, pulling me back by my arm. He gives Jordan a chance to readjust herself and she shifts her grip to wrap her arms around my waist in a tight bear hug. Lynn and Rocky are right behind them, grabbing whatever purchase they can get on my person, everybody is holding me back from smashing Hawk's fucking face in. Stopping me from killing him. I won't let them.

"Let me go!" I scream at them, thrashing uselessly in their grip. "Get off. Get the _fuck_ off!"

"Linc! Calm down dude!"

"Stop bro, _stop!"_

I don't listen. I drive my elbow back hard, and it makes solid contact with something soft and fleshy. I hear a feminine squeak of pain and the grip on my chest lessens and I take the opportunity to free my hand and shove it against Rusty's face. He stumbles to the side and I whirl back around to Hawk with nothing but murder in my eyes and hate burning in my blood.

And Clyde is standing right in front of me.

I choke at the sight and my head throbs. I flinch away from him like he was a hot stove and I've just been burned. Only when I blink, Clyde is gone and Lucy is standing in his place.

"Lincoln!" Her voice breaks into a pitch and I freeze, momentarily shocked out of my anger. Did Lucy just raise her voice? "Lincoln stop, he's not worth it. _Please!_ " She reaches forward and helps in holding me back. More hands secure themselves firmly around my arms and waist. I'm not going anywhere.

Rusty steps out in front of us, but he's not focused on me. He's busy glaring at Hank and Hawk

"Hawk," his voice is cold, ice cold, and I don't think I've ever heard him this pissed before. "Get out of here man. Don't come back. Ever."

Hawk picks up Hank from where he's crumpled up on the lawn. He sneers back at Rusty but his eyes magically avoid mine as the two of them limp away to their car. I'm dead silent as I watch their tail lights disappear around the corner.

I glance down at the same time Lucy looks back up to me, and even through the haze, I can see tears forming in her eyes. My heart rate continues to skyrocket and I'm suddenly very aware of the arms still holding he back. They're close. Too close. I break free with some force and take a few steps to make some distance from everyone else. My fists clench painfully at my sides and I breathe in and out with choked, ragged exhales.

"Lincoln," Lynn touches my shoulder and I shrug her off, turning around to glare at her in the process.

"Don't Lynn. Just… just fucking _don't._ "

I flip around completely and see that Rocky is busy dispersing the audience that crowded around us, which is a small blessing in of itself. But other than that, everyone else is staring at me. Judging me. Pitying me. I hate it.

"What?!" I snap at them, and they all collectively flinch as one. Except for Lynn, who just keeps staring at me, searching my face for... something, I don't what. Over her shoulder, I spy Stella passing a beer off to Jordan, who takes it gently and uses it as an improvised cold compress. She nursing a cheek that's slightly swollen and already starting to bruise. My stomach lurches with guilt.

Oh fuck, did I do that? _Fuck._

I can't stay here. I have to leave. Now. Coming to this party was a huge mistake. What the Hell was I thinking?

With shaky, sweaty hands—I dig through my pockets to fish out both my keys and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I toss the former to Lucy and they jingle as she makes the catch.

"I'll be by the car." I mumble as I frantically light my smoke, ignoring everyone's eyes like a total coward. Somebody calls my name, but I ignore them. And as I stumble away, back to my Jeep, I notice my hands are still shaking uncontrollably.

I don't mean to act like this. I want to talk to them, to be normal again. I want to apologize—really, I do… but I can't. I can't face them like I am now— this broken mess of nerves and unpredictability that I've deteriorated into ever since Clyde died. I just can't do it. I can't look them in the eyes.

Because when I do, all I can see is Clyde, staring right back at me. And that scares me more than any insurgent or IED or impending mental breakdown ever could.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **This chapter just kept disappointing me the more and more as I wrote it — it actually pissed me off so much that I had to rewrite it from scratch... and I'm** _still_ **not satisfied with it. And I don't know why, but I am. Oh well, take it for what it is.**

 **Till next time** —


	4. Breathe

**These Scars I Carry  
Chapter 4  
"Breathe"**

* * *

Even before I open my eyes I can feel the presence of another person in my room, and the hair on the back of my neck puts my body on alert. Hand-to-hand combat is not usually the Taliban's style. They'd rather take our money at the local bazaar and use it to buy weapons to kill us with later. They prefer ambushes, roadside bombs, and sniping from windows and rooftops. But there is someone here with me in the dark and I'm not going to wait to be killed.

I surge upward, grabbing the intruder around his knees, and drop him to the floor. I pin him beneath me, the blade of my knife at his throat. Only in the thin slashes of moonlight coming through the blinds, I realize he is not a he, but actually a she. It's Luan. And for the first time since I've known her, she looks absolutely scared. Terrified.

"Oh, shit!" I drop the knife as if it's red-hot and scrabble backward against the side of my bed. My head is spinning, I'm still drunk— but even then, I'm able to sober up enough to realize just how much I fucked up just now.

"Jesus! Luan, what the fu— Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness of my room, and I can see clear the fear on Luan's face. Her eyes are wide with shock, her mouth dropped open and her face pale as the moonlight filtering through my room. But to her credit— in that classic, otherworldly Luan-way of not letting anything get to her— she shrugs it off quick. Her fear falls away as she registers my surprise and she laughs as she picks up the knife.

"It's okay Lincoln, I really get the... _point_ you're trying to make." She chuckles as she twirls my knife like it were a pin used for juggling. "For future reference, I won't try to sneak into your room in the middle of... _knife_ anymore. Eh? Ehhh?"

As she laughs, I just stare, dumbfounded at how rationally she's taking this. That and I'm having trouble grasping the fact that the first thing she says to me after a year of no contact is a fucking pun. Two of them actually.

Then again, this _is_ Luan we're talking about here.

My eyes glance over to the clock on my nightstand. "Jesus Luan, it's like four in the morning!"

"Early bird gets the worm Lincoln!" She grins and I sigh, blinking rapidly to try and will away the haze of my prematurely ended alcoholic slumber.

I reach over to take the knife from her playful hands and put it on the bedside table, on top of the book I'll never finish. I take a seat on my bare bed, Luan parking herself next to me, crisscrossing her legs as she gleams to me with a far too eager smile. It's too early for this.

"What are you doing here?" I ask her and her face falls slightly.

"Wow, really Linc? You spend a year away and the first thing you ask me is ' _what are you doing here'?_ " She says, deepening her voice in a mock tone of my own.

"Sorry," I sigh. "Not what I meant. I mean, what are you doing here at four in the morning?"

"Visiting you dummy." She's back to grinning as she leans forward to catch me in a tight hug. "Welcome home bro-beans. Sorry I couldn't catch you yesterday."

"It's alright," I say as I return her hug. "You were busy."

"Well now I'm free! My next show's not until Thursday. So we have all week to catch up." She chuckles as we pull apart. "I have a new routine to show you. It's a real riot!"

"Can't wait," I yawn. "Can we continue this later? Like, when the sun is back up?"

"Fine then spoilsport." She says, sticking her tongue out at me. "I didn't actually mean to wake you. I just wanted to make sure you weren't gonna die from alcohol poisoning in here." She gestures to my bedside table. Luan's laid out a pair of water bottles for me on it and I'm caught off guard by the caring thoughtfulness behind it.

"Oh." I've got nothing to say, still kinda dazed by the love behind her simple action. "Uh thanks." My mouth is dry so I take a few gulps from one of the bottles and to help fight off my, no doubt, impending hangover.

"No problemo Linky." She grins, "You know what they say about Marines— you've gotta keep them _hydrated!_ Get it?"

She laughs her trademark Luan laugh, and I roll my eyes even as I feel a small smile etching out the corners of my mouth. I blame the alcohol.

"Oh! Did you ever hear about what M.A.R.I.N.E stands for?"

"' _My Ass Rides In Navy Equipment.'"_ I say to her deadpan. "C'mon dude, that one's not even close to original."

"I was gonna say _'Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential.'"_

"Heard that one too." I poke her once in the stomach, causing her to squeak and shift away. "What are you doing up? Do you have classes on a Saturday?"

"Oh no, Lynn was super noisy when she got back and I couldn't get back to sleep." She says with a shrug.

I want to ask her what she means by that, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a loud yawn.

"I'll let you get some sleep," Luan says.

"Yeah, thanks. We'll catch up later sis."

Luan gives me one last, lengthy hug before finally leaving. "I missed you little brother."

She smiles warmly as the door shuts behind her, and I pull myself back down to my impromptu bed on the floor. But as my head rests against my pillow, I toss and turn before deciding that it's a lost cause and further sleep has eluded me. I contemplate taking a few pills to help, but instead I just lay there and stare up at the ceiling.

My mind uncontrollably starts running at a rate of a million miles per hour, the events of last night playing through my head on repeat. Over and over, I see myself smashing my fists into Hank's bloodied face. Of Lucy shrieking and begging for me to stop. Of Lynn's panic stricken face.

And before I know it, I'm up and digging through my dresser drawers, searching for a pair of shorts and a fresh shirt.

* * *

 _What the hell am I doing?_

I'm standing on the cracked sidewalk in front of a nice orange and white house on Bellflower Avenue, trying to catch my breath as I'm wondering what I'm going to do next, when a man comes out the front door. It's still dark out, so at first I don't think he sees me.

"Is there a good reason why you're outside my house at five thirty in the morning?" He asks, resting a travel mug of coffee on the hood of an ancient looking Land Rover. His keys jingle as he unlocks the driver's side door. He surveys my t-shirt, soaked through with sweat under the arms and in the middle of my chest and raises an eyebrow. It's a long run from my house to the hills of Royal Woods— there's a lot of incline roads and even a bridge involved. It's not exactly what one could classify as an easy, relaxing route. Especially when you've still got alcohol in your system.

But hey, a little self-loathing goes a long way.

"Just ended up here, sir." I shrug lamely since I don't have a good answer for him. After Luan left, I pulled on my old running shoes and took off without any real destination in mind. I didn't even bring my cell phone. I just needed to get out and clear my head. "Wasn't sure where else to go."

"Interesting choice of destinations."

I nod. "Not real well thought out, either."

He chuckles. "Need a lift somewhere?"

"I could use a ride home." I say honestly.

The porch light flickers to life and Girl Jordan steps out of the house, the wooden screen door slamming shut behind her. "Lincoln?"

Her feet are bare and she's wearing little pajama shorts that sit low on her hips and make her mile-long legs seem to go on forever. I have to look away. The last thing I need is to pop a full fledged woody in front of her dad. Instead, I focus on her face— specifically on the small bruise that's formed on her cheek. Internally, I wince. God, I'm such an asshole.

"Yeah, um— hi." I say to her, not really knowing what I'm supposed to do or say at this moment.

Her dad's eyebrows lift, but he sips his coffee without comment.

"What are you doing here?" She steps off the porch into the small patch of damp grass, sounding only marginally annoyed with me at the moment. Small blessing I guess. "Haven't you had enough abuse for one night?"

Apparently not. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to get some air."

"You look like hell," she says. "Did you run the whole way?"

"More or less." I shrug nonchalant. A simple motion I find myself doing more and more these days.

Her mouth falls open. "That has to be at least—"

"Seven miles." They both stare at me like I've got a third ear growing on my face, but seven miles is nothing, especially when you're doing slick without a flak or a pack. Now what's _more_ interesting is the fact that she knows where I live.

"Well, oookay." Jordan's dad glances at his watch. "I need to get to work, so why don't you drop me off and then take Lincoln here on home?"

"Lemme go change real quick," she says, disappearing back into their home.

Bummer. I kinda liked the pajamas.

"Nice Rover sir." Jordan's dad's Land Rover is no doubt older than I am. Ancient even. With the exception of a CD player that he probably installed himself, there are no modern creature comforts inside. The windows are crank operated, the door locks are not automatic, and the spare tire is obnoxiously mounted in the middle of the front hood.

"Thanks." The driver's door creaks tellingly as he slams it shut behind him. "I bought her when I was a freshman in college. Every couple of months, I have to fix something or replace a part, but she's a tough old girl I won't let her die on me yet."

"Hey, if you ever need a hand sir…" My voice trails off as I stop, feeling like a total idiot and sounding like a complete suck-up.

"You know your way around an engine?"

"Somewhat," I answer him. Back in Afghanistan, we used up-armored Humvees and IED resistant gun trucks called MRAPs. Just like everything in the military, they were built by the lowest bidder, and would breakdown on us all the time. While we had legitimate mechanics attached to us, they couldn't be everywhere at once so it helped immensely if you knew at least the basics of vehicle maintenance. Everybody in our platoon was an amateur mechanic in a way.

He nods at me with a bit of appraisal. "You're Rita Loud's boy, aren't you?"

"Yes sir." It's interesting that he mentions my mom, and not referring to the fact that I'm the _one and only_ son of the Loud family. Everyone else in this town has me permanently pegged as the _'boy with ten sisters'_ or as that _'Loud kid, the one who's a boy'_ — it's hard trying to escape the shadow of such a large family. Part of the reason I enlisted in the first place.

"Welcome home son."

"Thank you sir."

"You can call me Mark instead of sir," he says. "It makes me feel old."

"Yes, si—" Old habits die hard. "Okay."

"You know, you used to be such a little douchebag." He's one of those older guys who can use a term like "douchebag" without sounding like one. The same way he can get away with wearing a Metal Mulisha t-shirt and not look as if he's trying too hard. Anyways, given the fact that the last two things I did tonight was elbow his daughter in the face and pretty much beat a guy half to death, I'm pretty sure I still qualify as a douchebag.

"Yeah, I'm sure I was." I chuckle, not at all offended.

"I still remember the night you and your friends crashed Jordan's first pool party." He turns the key and the Rover's engine sputters weakly for a few seconds before dying anticlimactically. He has to turn the ignition again, but eventually the engine sparks to life. Barely. "She ran inside our house, crying about how a couple of boys from school ruined everything."

I remember that night vividly. Clyde, Rusty, Zach and I were all supposed to be having a guy's night sleepover at Liam's farm, but we ended up sneaking out to crash Jordan's party instead. Definitely a dick move on our part since we ditched Liam while he was passed out in the barn, but we were planning on being back before he even knew we were gone.

We were all stupid kids back then, the only thing we cared about was how popular we were at school. And Jordan was throwing one of those important _'everybody who's somebody is gonna be there'_ parties. If you didn't show up, your social standing at school was going to take a harsh nosedive. The ever eternal bro-code didn't really seem to apply to us in that moment.

Joke was on us though— we became the laughing stock of our elementary school at the end of the night. What with Rusty's face blowing up thanks to an allergic reaction to hot sauce, Zach going bald from some very counter-intuitive hair dye, and both me and Clyde flashing the entire party with our whitey-tighties… yeah, it wasn't what I consider to be one of our greatest moments.

I laugh as the memory brings back some light feelings of nostalgia. "Jordan refused to talk to us for a whole month after that night."

"Consider yourself lucky that she doesn't hold grudges." He chuckles back. My mind flashes back to my screwed up actions of last night. I hope he's right.

Jordan reemerges from their house, this time wearing blue jeans and a black band t-shirt. As she climbs into the backseat, I turn around to look at her and notice Jim Morrison's face on the front of her shirt. So cool.

"Hey, I forgot to tell you last night," Jordan's dad says, glancing briefly in the rear-view mirror at her as he backs out of the driveway. "But I reconnected online with an old college friend of mine. She's thinking of coming for a visit."

Jordan rolls her eyes. "My dad discovered Facebook."

I give her a sympathetic look. I remember when my Dad first discovered the wonders of social media. Oh man, what a time _that_ was. Talk about getting sucked into your phone.

"It's too early to deal with your sass Jordan." He snarks, pulling the Rover onto the freeway.

"What do you do that you have to be at work so early?" I ask him.

"I do the morning show on 108.6."

No way. "Wait. _You're_ Mark? As in of Mark and Joe's Morning Call?"

"Yeah," he says with a glance.

"I used to make my roommates listen to your show on the internet."

He laughs. "And they still speak to you?"

"Dude, are you kidding? They loved it. You should be syndicated."

The Morning Call is the perfect show because they don't pretend to know everything when they're talking about stuff. If they bring up politics, they'd be sure be unbiased and shit on both sides. Their guests aren't lame, they play more music than talk and their music selection is actually _good._ When we and Clyde hit our unit, we introduced a bunch of the guys to them. Half our platoon listens to that show now.

"We've talked about it," he says. "But that brings pressure we aren't sure we want." He glances back at me. "You know, if you ever wanted to come talk about Afghanistan…"

I imagine telling all of central Michigan how we once caught Chopper in a porta-shitter, jacking off to a picture of Wonder Woman— the cartoon, not the Gal Gadot version. The thought makes me chuckle. "I'll think about it."

A few minutes later, we're at the radio station. Mark invites me in for a tour, but I turn him down. I reek after my run and it's been a long, strange night. I feel like I might be tired enough to sleep without the help of my pills. Nightmares be damned.

"I appreciate the offer sir, but I should probably get home."

"I thought I told you not to call me that." He frowns but I can tell his displeasure isn't genuine.

I shrug, "Force of habit sir. I'll try to work on it."

With a wave, he disappears inside the building and Jordan takes over the driving. "Are you hungry?" she asks, turning onto Grove Street in a direction opposite from the way to my house.

This is not a question I expected. I'm not especially hungry. I'm exhausted and I can still smell sweat, booze and even a bit of blood on my skin. Except I think Jordan is asking me to spend more time with her. This might make me a glutton for punishment, but I don't want to refuse. I mean, I still have to apologize for last night, don't I?

"Starved."

She pulls into a Denny's out off the freeway and we sit in a booth by the windows. After ordering a couple of Grand Slam breakfasts with eggs over easy and bacon, Jordan looks at me. "Why are you here?"

I shrug, stirring my black coffee with a spoon, just so I have something to do with my hands. "Guess I just wanted to apologize. I was a total ass last night."

She raises an eyebrow. "Apologize about forgetting who I was? Or for smacking me in the face?"

"For accidentally hitting you… but now that you mention it, sorry for not recognizing you too." I cringe slightly at the hazy memory of it all. Why do I do this to myself? "Guess that makes me a double-ass now, don't it?"

"I don't blame you Lincoln. At least for not remembering me. You were drunk— it happens." She shrugs, her fingers idly playing with a salt shaker.

"And the other thing I did?"

Her fingers cease their fidgeting. "Now that _,_ I _might_ blame you for. At least just a little bit." She glances up at me through her bangs, and I can't help my eyes from trailing downward to the bruise formed on her cheek. She could easily cover it up with some makeup, but that's besides the point.

"I'm sor-"

She holds up a hand. "You're sorry. I know. Just… forget about it. Apology accepted."

Despite what she says, from her tone, I can tell that my apology isn't accepted. Not really at least. She probably just doesn't want to talk about it anymore since it's an uncomfortable subject. She's just looking for an easy out of this conversation and, y'know what? I don't blame her. I'm a terrible conversationalist.

Jordan's hands return to playing with the salt shaker and I'm suddenly and dreadfully aware of how awkward this all is. I look away from her to focus down on my own hands. They're bruised and still a little bleeding— the knuckles having been split open from my fight.

Jordan seems to take notice. "Do they hurt?"

"A little," I shrug, pulling my hands back into my lap, hiding them from view. "How about you? How's the cheek?"

"A little sore, but I iced it right after, so there's no swelling." Her eyes bore themselves into mine, and I suddenly feel naked in front of her. "What about yours?"

"What about my what?" I cock my head slightly.

"Your eye."

"What about it?"

She gawks at me. "You didn't notice? Seriously?" She shifts the napkin dispenser so that the reflective side is facing me and I take a look. Idly, one of my fingers reaches for my face and I let out a small hiss of pain in response.

 _Ow. Shit._

One of my eyes is bloodshot crimson, the skin surrounding it slightly swollen and discolored black and blue. Like, black as midnight really. Looks like one of Hank's punches last night made a little more solid impact than I originally noticed.

"Oh damn," I mutter as I gingerly prod at my swollen skin. I honestly had no idea— it's not like I took a minute to inspect myself before I went out on my little PT run. I just grabbed my shoes and bailed.

"Hank really did a number on your face, didn't he?" Jordan says and I try to make light of the conversation.

"Eh, I'm pretty sure I got him back good enough." I start to grin at her, but it falls off my face when I see the reserved look she has on. "What?"

"Lincoln," she murmurs quietly. "You beat him pretty bad last night."

I raise an eyebrow. "And your point is?"

Suddenly there's a fire burning in her eyes and I mentally backpedal as I'm caught completely off guard. _Shit, she can go from gentle to scary real quick._

"My _point is_ that you could have killed him if we hadn't stopped you." She glares at me and I blink.

"I think you're overreacting just a bit." I say antagonistically but I know it's just mostly bullshit I'm spewing. Hank was an asshole— has _always_ been an asshole— and he deserved to get his ass thoroughly kicked. Same goes with Hawk. And at the time, drunk-me was content with doing just that. Kick their fucking asses.

But when Hawk insulted Clyde— I just— I wanted more. I wanted to hurt him. Hurt him _bad._ Not just some blood and bruising, but something significant. Something permanent. A broken nose just wasn't enough.

I don't think I would have killed him or anything… but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't already imagining myself stomping on his fucking face or breaking his fucking arm. Or maybe taking a baseball bat to his dome and ensuring he would be eating from a tube for the rest of his life. Shit, just thinking about it gets me angry.

I grip my mug tightly, so tight that I'm surprised the ceramic handle doesn't break and shatter to a million different pieces. Jordan clears her throat and I look up to catch her eyes. They're narrowed in an analytical stare. Maybe even a bit judgmental. I can feel heat rising to my face.

" _What?"_ I say, not too pleased about her gaze.

"You have that look on your face again."

"What 'look'?"

"The one you had on last night," Jordan says quietly. "The one after Hawk…" Her voice trails off and I sneer back.

"After Hawk started talking shit on Clyde?" I finish for her and looks away with what seems an awful lot like shame.

"Yeah, that…" She mutters.

"Yeah? Well can you blame me?" I challenge her and she looks back at me.

"Lincoln-"

Suddenly our waitress arrives and slides our plates onto the table. Jordan stops and looks away. Silently, I dig into my hash browns, mentally kicking myself for having this conversation crash and burn right in front of my eyes. Goddamnit, I came here to make things _right_ , not make things even _worse_.

This isn't Jordan's fault, I know that. But I'm a prideful, selfish, angry little prick and I don't know how to fix that. I wish I knew how to talk to her, I wish I knew what to say. If Clyde were here, he would know. He always did. Back in New York City, he would say sweet things to girls that made them smile and go all soft-eyed. I lacked his finesse. I lacked his compassion.

I look up and Clyde is sitting beside Jordan on the bench, his arms hooked around the back of her booth and his body so close to hers that they're basically touching. I wonder why she doesn't feel him, doesn't _see_ him.

"We fucked up good, didn't we Indy?" he says with a grin.

I just stare at him as he reaches across the table and— just as if we were back at school of infantry— snatches a strip of bacon from off my plate. It doesn't levitate in midair and, beside Clyde, Jordan crunches down on a bite of toast, completely ignorant of the fact that there are three of us at this table.

"I mean…" Clyde folds the whole strip of bacon into his mouth and chews for a moment. Slowly. Deliberately. "I'm dead and you're seeing things that aren't really there, and we have no one else to blame."

I blink at him rapidly, trying to will him away. But each time I open my eyes, Clyde is still sitting there, chewing on my stolen bacon. This isn't right. Before when I would blink, Clyde would be gone. I don't why it's not working now, but I'm starting to freak out.

"We've got no one to blame but ourselves Indy," he says to me with a small, sad smile and I suddenly find it impossible to swallow.

"We should have told somebody about the kid," I whisper and Jordan looks at me.

"What?" she asks, confused.

Clyde turns his head to look at her and I see the gash in the side of his neck, the skin torn open, and dark dried blood crusted around the edges. His glasses crack, and I can suddenly smell smoke and cordite.

My stomach churns and the fork clatters as it hits the plate. I scramble over my seat, tripping once in the process as I haul ass for the restroom. I slam the door open and next thing I know, I'm puking up eggs and bacon and every last damn drop of alcohol I had last night. The taste of it on my tongue is beyond foul and my head starts pounding like a motherfucker. Oh hell, what did I drink so much?

"Lincoln?" Jordan knocks on the bathroom door before very hesitantly poking her head into the room, catching me as I'm wiping my face off, nearly doubled over the sink. "Hey Lincoln, you doing okay?"

Bitterly, I want to laugh and tell her— No Jordan, I'm not okay. I'm actually losing my fucking mind. If you would, please, give me a minute to unfuck my scrambled brain. I'll be out in a sec.

Instead, like an asshole, I just mutter to her. "I need to go."

"Yeah, sure." She looks confused and I can't blame her. First I don't recognize her and proceed to hit on her at a party. Then I end up driving my elbow into her face when she tries to stop me from killing someone, only to show up outside her house in the middle of the night a few hours later. Now I'm slumped over in the men's room of a Denny's, where I had just finished flushing away my stomach after seeing my very much dead best friend joining us for breakfast.

"I'll, um…" She looks at my reflection in the mirror and I can't tell what she's thinking. "I'll take care of the bill."

"I've got it," I say, but the door thumps closed behind her. I pat my pocket, but it's empty. Just as well she didn't hear me. I forgot my wallet, too. Fucking idiot Loud.

There's a small blessing in the fact that we don't talk on the drive back to my house. At least not until she pulls the Land Rover into the driveway.

"Feeling better now?" Jordan asks.

I can't tell her I saw Clyde, that back there in the restaurant he talked to me. Because what Marine— what person, really— wants to admit that their brain is scrambled? Who would want to associate themselves with _that_ guy? "I guess. Thanks."

Awkward silence. I don't leave the Rover just yet because I feel like there should be more I should say— say something to help justify my actions, at least without having to fully explain myself.

But I don't know what to say. So I go with my gut.

"Sorry about snapping at you earlier."

She looks at me and her eyes are soft. "It's okay. My fault for bringing up a sore subject."

Silence falls over us again. Thick and awkward.

"And I'm, uh, sorry for hitting you last night." Again with the pathetic apologies. Smooth Loud. Very smooth.

"You already apologized to me for that dummy."

"Yeah well, I wanted to do it again. So yeah, sorry."

Despite my weirdness though, she giggles and it feels like the air between us has been cleared. Like she got out of her system what has been festering since last night. At least now I know that she doesn't hates me for having been such a dick...or maybe she does, and she just thinks I'm pathetic and feels sorry for me. Which, hey, isn't exactly ideal, but still an improvement over hating me. I guess. Whatever.

There is something that's still bothering me though. Some little detail I can't quite shake off.

"Hey, Jordan, can I ask you something?"

"Okay." Her expression is guarded. Wary.

"You could have brought me straight home, but you didn't," I say. "Why?"

She doesn't look at me, just stares straight ahead through the front windshield. "I have to go Linc. I'm going to be late for work."

I don't press the question as I get out of the Rover. Her non-answer is enough for now.

"I'll see you later, Jordan."

* * *

My mom is alone at the kitchen counter when I go inside, her hands curled around a cup of coffee. She gives me a tired smile, then glances up at the clock. "Have you been out all this time?"

"Sort of."

Used to be, she'd try to ground me for staying out all night. She probably still does to Lynn and Luan, despite the fact that they're older. But me? Well now she doesn't even ask where I've been. Instead she just looks at me with eyes that are ringed with a soft sadness.

"Coffee?" She asks, raising her mug slightly in my direction.

I'm so tired I can barely see straight, but I guess I can stay up a few minutes longer with my mom. I scrub my hand over some rough stubble on my face. I need a shave. "Sure, thanks."

She reaches up to the open cupboard and I notice there are several used Keurig cups by the machine. She's been awake for awhile it seems. Maybe she was up when I left this morning and I hadn't noticed. She fills a USMC Mom mug with coffee and slides it to me.

"You okay?" I ask.

She nods with her head down, so I can't see her face, but when she looks up there are tears in her eyes. Shit. This night is never going to end, is it?

She wipes her nose with a tissue. "Your sister and I got into a fight."

"What the—? Who? Why?"

"Me and Lynn," she says. "I called her cell last night when she was out, but she didn't answer."

Something is not right here. Why didn't she call me or Lucy? "Mom, what's going on?"

"I was still up when you three made it home last night. You were so drunk that Lucy and Lynn had to carry you back to your room." She says and I blink. Last night, the last thing I remember was smoking a cigarette out by my Jeep while waiting for my sisters. Then, I guess I blacked out. But shit, they had to _carry_ me back up? Did I get _that_ thrashed?

"Sorry about that." I wince.

"It's okay, I understand." I doubt she does, but I don't correct her. "Anyways, when they finally got you to bed, Lucy went back to her room, but Lynn wanted to go back out."

"What? Why?"

"She—we haven't been getting along very well this past year. And, I don't know, maybe it's my own fault." She manages to choke out, trying hard not to fall to pieces in front of me. "When she was leaving, I tried to stop her but we just started arguing. And then yelling. And then— and then she just _left_."

Mom starts crying so I move to her side of the counter and put my arms around her. It's hard to be affectionate with her— and not only because I've been away so long. I'm just not used to this. Leni was always the compassionate one of out us all. The careful and comforting one— compared to her, I don't know what I'm doing.

Mom collapses against my chest, her words and sobs spilling out together in a flood. "While you were in Afghanistan, I went a little— well, I went a little crazy," she says. "You have no idea how afraid I was for you. I was on the internet all hours of the night, talking to other Marine parents and googling your name to make sure you were still alive. Whenever I saw a news article that said US troops had been killed, I was terrified the doorbell would ring and someone would tell me you were dead. Then they'd release the names of who died and I'd cry with relief that it wasn't my son and then cry more because it was someone else's son. I was obsessive about keeping my cell phone charged and I checked it a million times a day so I wouldn't miss your call."

Mom wipes her eyes, but she can't stop the flow of tears. And I hate myself even more because when I was deployed, I considered calling home every once in awhile to be such a _chore_. To call Mom and let her know I was still alive to be a waste of time... me being here, comforting her right now, this isn't an absolution. This doesn't make up for the way I've treated her.

I'm still an asshole, yeah— but this is my Mom. She deserves better.

"When Lynn got injured and dropped out, I was so worried about you that I didn't pay attention to how she was acting. The way she withdrew from everyone." She sniffles, "She's hurting Lincoln, she's hurting and I didn't do anything to try and help her."

This is not her fault. It's mine.

"I'll talk to her."

Mom sucks in a snotty breath and pulls back. "No. It's okay. I didn't mean—" She smooths her hand over the damp spot on my shirt. "I didn't mean to put this on your shoulders. God knows you've got enough on your plate." She looks up at me. "Lincoln, have you been fighting?"

"Long story, don't worry about it," I say. "Have you slept?"

She shakes her head and gestures toward a to-do list lying on the counter. Grocery shopping. Cookies for Lola's cheerleader car wash/bake sale. Dry cleaning. I take the list in hand and crush it.

"Sleep first. Dad can take care of the dry cleaning and I'll get the groceries."

Mom's eyes go watery again. "You're such a good man, Lincoln."

If she knew the things I've done, the pain I wanted to inflict on those guys last night, and the way I took her love for granted while deployed— she'd know I'm not even _close_ to being a good man.

"Go get some sleep, Mom."

About an hour later, I drop the freshly bought groceries off in the kitchen and stumble my way back upstairs. I'm beyond exhausted when I finally reach my own room and collapse onto my bed. My eyes drift as I become too tired to think about Lynn and Mom, or Jordan or even that my mattress is too soft. Somewhere in my head, I think I can just faintly make out Clyde's voice chiding me.

When I finally fall asleep, if I have any nightmares, they're long gone before I wake up again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **This chapter was originally supposed to be finished and released on the 10th, which was the Marine Corps Birthday. But real life got in the way... Then I planned to finish and release it on the 11th for Veterans Day. But real life got in the way. Again.**

 **What a bag of dicks ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯**

 **But yeah, back to the chapter — as you can tell, not all is well within the Loud House. There's a reason Lynn is the only sister tagged in the character roles. That much though, will have to wait to be expanded upon for future chapters.** **Also I have to say, Luan is difficult to write for. Mostly because I lack any sort of creative bone in my body and can't make a good pun to save my life. I hope I can do her justice when she starts making more lengthy appearances later.**

 **Well I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review if you want. Or you can flame me, that's cool too. Your tears will just motivate me further.**

 **Till next time—**


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